Penance
by Michael Donovan
Summary: As a mortal Drusilla falls under the hold of Angelus, her life follows a continuing downward spiral


PENANCE  
WRITTEN BY: MICHAEL K. DONOVAN  
Mike@vmp-canada.com  
  
  
LONDON 1860  
  
The young woman stirred in her sleep and twisted the bedsheets in her fists, her dark hair spilled across the pillow and her face tightened with distress as she slept. A soft, fearful moan escaped her slightly parted lips and her eyelids fluttered. Suddenly, she awoke, starting violently and sitting up straight in panic.  
  
Breathing raggedly, Drusilla gathered a knitted blanket close around herself. The nightmare was over, thank the Heavens, already fading from her memory as quickly and completely as the night retreated from the dawn. It was over. For now.   
  
The house was starting to warm, crawling out from under the cool grip of night. Someone had recently stoked the coal oven, and the sun was just beginning to peek its glowing edge over the horizon.   
  
Slipping out of bed, she touched her delicate feet to the chill floorboards. On the other side of the small room, her younger brother, Joshua, slept fitfully, shivering under a thick quilt.   
  
He had just turned fifteen this past winter and was already well into manhood, supplementing the family's income by helping out some of the local fishermen. He was as sweet and gentle a young man as she had ever known. Drusilla smiled when she looked at him, as she often did, bolstered by a strong surge of familial love. She took the blanket from her bed and carefully laid it over him, tucking it close around his neck. Instantly, his shivering stilled and the tension left his face.  
  
Still smiling to herself, she paused for a moment, watching him in the gloom. He was growing into a handsome man, she realized, his dark hair and deep crystal-blue eyes a lure for any young lady. It wouldn't be long before he would have a family of his own to care for. As much as she loved her brother, Drusilla couldn't help but hope that that day would be far off. He was such a sweet boy, she just couldn't imagine him being ready to go out into the world on his own.  
  
Opening the door quietly, she tiptoed into the main room of the family's modest living quarters. Bright orange light shone in through the murky glass windows, casting a ruddy glow about the small room. A worn box made of wood sitting against the wall was half full with raw coal.  
  
Shivering and blowing on her hands to warm them, she reached for a pair of black metal tongs and froze with her hand half outstretched. A small, black spider had spun a web for itself in a corner of the coal box, directly over the tongs, and she feared touching it.   
  
She hated spiders. So ugly, the eight-legged creatures couldn't possibly have been a creation of God's.  
  
With a distasteful face, she flicked a piece of coal into the web, sweeping it away. Still worried about the harmless arachnid, she darted her hand in and grabbed the tongs. Using them, she picked up a rough-edged lump of coal and lifted the cover of a squat iron heating stove, dropping the fuel into its flaming maw. Setting the tongs back into the coal box, she closed the top of the stove and latched it securely shut.  
  
"You're awake rather early, aren't you, Kitten?" A deep voice rumbled from the other end of the room.  
  
Drusilla jumped nervously and whipped around. A tall, swarthy man with a well trimmed beard and deep, dark eyes sat sideways in a sturdy, armless chair at the kitchen table.   
  
"Daddy!" she exclaimed in pleased excitement, skipping across the room to him, "What are you still doing at home? Shouldn't you be opening up the store?"  
  
Ever since he had gained full ownership of the modest furniture store, her father had always been sure to be there with the doors open at the crack of dawn. Drusilla couldn't fathom why he would still be here with the shop unattended. Something must have been wrong.  
  
Her father pulled her into his lap and hugged her comfortingly. She could feel the tension bristling in him.  
  
"There was an accident at the mine this morning, Kitten." He sighed, shaking his head, "I knew something bad was brewin'. Canaries were dropping like stones all day yesterday. When the first men went down the hole today, there was an explosion and a cave-in. Two of them were killed."  
  
"Dear Heavens." Drusilla gasped softly, touching her hand to her mouth in horror.   
  
She had had a dream of a cave-in at the mine yesterday, one so real that she had wept with fear for the lives of the miners, and now it seemed that her vision had come true. At the time, her mother had told her to ignore the dreams, that to claim knowledge of the future was blasphemy, and that she must try her best to ignore them.  
  
Drusilla had agreed, convincing herself that it was nothing, but the disaster at the mine had shaken her resolve and caused her to doubt. Perhaps the dreams were real?  
  
"I'm closing the store for the day." He informed her, standing up and easing her off his lap and onto her feet, "They'll need help with retrieving the bodies. Joshua has taken sick again so he won't be going out on the boats with the other boys today. I need you to check in on him while your Mum is busy this morning."   
  
Drusilla frowned. Joshua was ill? She hadn't noticed anything strange about him when she had awoken this morning. She hoped he was all right.   
  
"Yes, Daddy." She promised quietly, her mind still partly occupied with thoughts of the cave-in, "Just as soon as I return from the abbey."  
  
The man nodded sternly and went to the door.  
  
"Good girl, you make your peace with the Lord." He smiled proudly at her, "After this morning's disaster, we could all do with a bit of extra prayer."  
  
He exiting without a word, marching down the cobbled walkway as his daughter watched through the window.   
  
Drusilla heard soft footsteps behind her and turned to find Joshua standing in the doorway to the room she shared with him, wrapped in his quilt.  
  
"You're upset." He whispered softly, staring at her with wide, delicate blue eyes.  
  
"It's nothing, Joshua." She assured him with a weak smile, "Just a little fright from a dream I had, that's all. Daddy says you're feeling sick again? What's wrong?"  
  
Joshua swallowed uneasily and pulled the quilt tighter around his shoulders.  
  
"I can see darkness, Dru. All around the house." He muttered fearfully, "On Mum and Da, even you. Especially you. It's making my head sick."  
  
"What are you talking about? That's foolishness." she feigned a laugh to cover the nervousness twisting inside her. Darkness? Her dreams had been filled with darkness of late, a dark predatory thing that followed her wherever she went.  
  
"You know about the mine, don't you Dru?" he asked, continuing to watch her, "It happened just like in the dream you had yesterday. You can see things, can't you? That's why Mum's making you go to the abbey today."  
  
Drusilla smiled nervously and went to put another lump of coal in the stove. It was well into spring, but for some reason she felt unusually cold this morning.  
  
"Don't be daft, Joshua." She scoffed prettily, "I've had enough of you trying to bedevil me with your foolish words. I'm going to confession to cleanse my soul, not because of any dreams. You would do good to do the same once you get better."  
  
"Listen to me, Dru." He pleaded softly, "Please don't go to the abbey today. I'm afraid something terrible is going to happen."  
  
His voice sounded so fragile, like he was about to cry. Joshua was not like the other boys his age. He had always been sensitive, perhaps too sensitive. His eyes possessed extraordinary vision, an ability which allowed him to perceive things that were invisible to others. As a consequence, however, he often felt more deeply than most and was susceptible to strong emotions.   
  
She knew he had learned to keep much of what he saw quiet. More often than not, his wild claims only caused him trouble. Dru was surprised that he had so readily revealed the source of his fears to her. Joshua was well aware that she, like their mother, rejected all such ungodly occurrences.   
  
"I have no choice, Joshua." She shook her head sadly and sighed, "Mum will tan my hide if I have another dream. I have to make my peace with God so they'll go away."  
  
He clutched her arm desperately, fearfully.   
  
"You don't know what could happen." He warned in a tight whisper, "The dark and the cold are waiting for you."  
  
She was startled by his vehemence and had no immediate response. Drawing him into a gentle hug, she stroked her fingers comfortingly along the side of his head.  
  
"I know, Joshua," she soothed, "I know, but if I don't get there soon, I'll have to wait until after the morning service for Father Mcmannus to meet me in the confessional."  
  
She released him and grabbed up her coat, slipping her arms through the sleeves and buttoning it tightly. In the pocket, she had a hand-sized bible and a wooden rosary, still there from her last confession only two days ago. She wrapped a thin, gauze-like scarf about her head and neck, adjusting it so that it framed her face like a kerchief. Giving Joshua another quick squeeze, she went for the door.  
  
"Tell Mummy I'll be back soon." She smiled at him as she opened the door, "I'll stop by the market and buy you some cakes on the way back, okay?"  
  
He stood quiet and still, watching her with those big, blue eyes, so filled with fear.  
  
"Be careful." He pleaded, his voice weak and barely audible.  
  
She felt so guilty leaving him alone and ignoring his warning like this, but she had no choice but to go to confession again. Mummy simply would not have her only daughter beset by blasphemous images of the future.   
  
"I will." She assured him, pulling open the door, "Promise."  
  
Regretfully, she closed the door behind her and headed down the cobbled walkway. The sky was lightening now as dawn arrived, turning the horizon a pale blue ranging up to a deeper azure higher up without a trace of cloud. It promised to be a fine day and the morning chill would no doubt burn off by noontime.  
  
Skipping along a worn pathway toward the edge of town, she turned down a shaded alleyway and skidded abruptly to a stop, her heart jumping into her throat. A young man dressed in black finery stood shrouded in shadow with his hands buried in the pockets of a long topcoat. His long, sandy brown hair was tied back into a stubby ponytail at the top of his collar. He was tall and dark complected, with deep, intense eyes, like bottomless pools of the darkest, starless night.   
  
"Hello." He smiled kindly, displaying an array of straight white teeth, "I didn't startle you, did I?"  
  
"Um, n-no." She replied, recomposing herself. In truth, for a fleeting moment, she had thought it was the Prince of Darkness himself waiting for her, but now she realized he was just a man.  
  
"What's your name?" he took a step toward her and instinctively she stepped back, somewhat nervous around young men.  
  
"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he smiled again. Something about him was not right, she knew. She detected a distinct Irish accent to his voice. Her father had always told her to never trust the Irish, perhaps that was it.   
  
"I must be going." She attempted to walk around him and he stepped into her path.  
  
"Wait." He looked at her with those endlessly deep eyes, "What's your name?"  
  
"I-it's Drusilla. Drusilla Abbott. Please, I must go to the market." She dropped her gaze to the ground. The lie filled her with guilt, but she was starting to feel uncomfortable and a bit afraid of this man. She didn't feel right telling him where she was truly going.  
  
"Drusilla." He breathed the name slowly as if tasting its shape on his lips, "That's a very pretty name. I'm Angel."  
  
"Angel?" she echoed, surprised, "Are you a missionary?"  
  
"A m-? Yes, yes, I am here to do the Lord's work, I am." He held himself up proudly and casually brushed off the lapels of his coat.  
  
Drusilla sighed and relaxed instantly. She felt very foolish suddenly, embarrassed by her rash appraisal of him. All her fear had been for nothing. She was standing before a man of God, not some servant of evil.  
  
"You are young to be one of His messengers." She noted conversationally, warming to make up for acting so suspiciously earlier, "Have you been spreading the Lord's message for long?"  
  
"Not long at all." He smirked wryly, looking her over with interest.  
  
Drusilla's eyes met his and she broke into a shy smile, dropping her gaze and shifting from foot to foot. She could feel warmth burning in her cheeks and along her neck. Although she was nearing her eighteenth year, she had lived a sheltered life and was not accustomed to such earnest attention from a man. Waving shortly, she eased past him to the open end of the alley.  
  
"Well, good morn to you, Missionary." She smiled, forcing herself to look him in the face so as not to seem impolite, "I must be off."  
  
Turning quickly, she hurried off, her feet a blur of tiny, lady-like steps.  
  
"Yes." He answered softly with his dark eyes fixed unerringly on her as she left, "Good Mourn."  
  
***  
  
After passing through the alleyway. Drusilla made a detour and stopped by the marketplace. The missionary's dark, intense eyes still haunted her and she needed a few moments to clear her head, to cleanse away any traces of impure thoughts that might still linger. Besides, this way, the lie she had told him would not be a lie at all. A loophole perhaps, but it did much to assuage her guilt.   
  
As she entered the market, she drew in a deep breath, enjoying the wonderful mix of exciting smells. The market had always been one of her favorite places, ever since she had been a child. It had something to do with the mystery of the place combined with the safety of being familiar with many of the people there.   
  
All around her, the shopkeepers of the district were opening up their doors and setting out their wares on homemade wooden stalls, everything from salted fish to quilts and clothing made by their wives and daughters. Drusilla paused to inspect a fine looking sweater through one of the shop windows when a familiar voice called out to her.  
  
She lifted her head and spotted a pretty young girl with silken blonde hair and bright, hazel eyes, rushing across the square toward her. She wore a long dark blue dress with a fetching pink scarf knotted at her throat and hard-soled shoes on her small feet. Anne was a few years younger than Drusilla, she had just turned sixteen a month ago, but it had never been a problem. Of all the girls Drusilla knew, Anne was her closest friend.   
  
"Dru!" the girl shouted, waving wildly as she came with a wide grin on her face, "Dru, I'm so glad you're here!"  
  
The girl bounced giddily on the spot, almost breathless with excitement, her face flushed and glowing.  
  
"What?" Dru smiled, caught up in her friend's energetic mood, "Anne, what is it? You look like you're about to burst!"  
  
"Oh, I think I am, Dru!" Anne giggled gleefully, "I've met the most wonderful man!"  
  
Drusilla smiled to herself. Poor Anne imagined herself to be in love every second week. All it took was a decent looking man and a casual smile in her direction. Sometimes not even that. Anne's imagination often supplied to her what real life could not.  
  
"Oh, he's tall and handsome." Anne sighed dreamily, "He's an Irishman, too. I so love the sound of his voice!"  
  
"An Irishman?" Drusilla frowned suspiciously, "I met an Irishman this morning. He's a missionary."  
  
"My Irishman is certainly no missionary." Anne grinned devilishly, "A musician, perhaps. He does such incredible things with his hands." Her gaze went distant and the flush in her cheeks deepened as she toyed with the scarf around her throat.  
  
Drusilla's eyes flew wide with shocked excitement and she clutched her friend's sleeve tightly.   
  
"Anne, you dreadful creature, you DIDN'T!" she gasped, her mouth hanging open, "You'll have yourself set for the eternal fire from such trysting!"  
  
Anne giggled, "Let the Devil have my soul. My heart belongs to my dark Irishman. And what about your heart Drusilla? Rumor has it that the good blacksmith's son, John Coleman has been asking about you. Methinks I see a courtship in your future."  
  
Despite the flattering news, Drusilla's smile fell and her breath caught in her throat. The future . . .The memory of her dream yesterday came flitting disturbingly back through her mind.  
  
"Don't be silly." She forced a laugh to cover her uneasiness, "No one can see the future! I-it's blasphemy."  
  
Anne rolled her eyes in exasperation and chuckled softly, "Dru, sometimes I wonder if you shouldn't live in that monastery with all the time you spend with your mind on the heavens."  
  
Drusilla gasped softly and touched her hand to her mouth. In all the excitement, she had almost forgotten the abbey. Mass would be starting soon.  
  
"I'm on my way to the abbey. I must be off now," Dru shook her head with bemused tolerance. It wasn't Anne's fault that she had been raised in a Godless household.   
  
Drusilla reached into her pocket and twined her fingers through the loop of rosary beads, taking comfort in the hard edges of the tiny cross as she turned in the direction of the abbey. "I'll be sure to send up a prayer for your wicked soul while I am in the confessional."  
  
Anne waved goodbye with a friendly smile.  
  
"You can't avoid men forever, Luv!" she shouted, "You'll end up being a hundred year old spinster!"  
  
***  
  
Drusilla hurried up the steps to the abbey. It had taken her longer than she had expected to make the trek up to the hills and she worried whether she had arrived in time to catch the Father at a free moment. The abbey was a huge place, with a high curved ceiling and intricately made stained-glass windows placed at regular intervals around the circumference of the dome. The building was eerily quiet and her footsteps echoed loudly off the walls. The service hadn't started yet, at least, she had made it in time.  
  
She quelled a nervous shiver as she approached the confessional booth. The near silence was beginning to make her tense. As a child, she had often imagined ghosts living in the rafters of the old building, waiting to swoop down and carry her off. She was a regular churchgoer and visited the abbey often, but she had never been able to shake that feeling.  
  
She knelt behind the rearmost pew and faced the altar, tracing the sign of the cross quickly over her chest. She then rose and stepped through the curtain of one of the confessional booths. She knelt on a raised and padded piece of the floor and unwrapped her scarf from her face, ducking her head and folding her hands in prayer.  
  
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been two days since my last confession." she began and then paused when she heard a dull thump from the other side of the screen, "Father?"  
  
"That's not very long." the father answered after a moment.  
  
Drusilla felt a creeping chill pass over her briefly. The voice was not one she recognized. She had expected to receive confession from either Father Mcmannus or Father Oake. Frowning slightly, she shook her head to clear it. It did not matter, she reminded herself, all priests held the Lord's ear with equal importance.  
  
"Oh, Father, I'm so afraid." she said, her voice unintentionally trembling.  
  
The priest paused again for an instant before answering.  
  
"The Lord is very forgiving." he told her kindly, "Tell me your sins."  
  
Drusilla inhaled deeply and fought the panic that threatened to overtake her. Just thinking about the terrible visions was enough to upset her.  
  
"I had...I've been seeing again, Father. Yesterday, the men were going to work in the mine. I had... a terrible fright." she paused and drew in a shuddering breath, "My stomach's all tied up, and I saw this horrible... crash. My mummy said to keep my peace, it didn't mean nothing. But this morning...they had a cave-in. Two men died."   
  
She waited tensely for some indication that the priest had heard her and was not about to cast her out of the church in shame and disgrace.   
  
"Go on." he intoned calmly.  
  
"Me mum says... I'm cursed." she breathed, "My seeing things is an affront to the Lord, that only He's supposed to see anything before it happens. But I don't mean to, Father, I swear! I swear!" panic gripped her now that the story was started and the floodgates of her memory had opened and she began to weep fearfully, "I try to be pure in his sight. I don't want to be an evil thing."   
  
"Oh, hush, child." the priest's voice sounded almost like a chideful snicker, "The Lord has a plan for all creatures. Even a Devil child like you."  
  
"A Devil?" she gasped, touching her hand to her mouth in surprise. A frightening chill crept down her spine.  
  
"Yes! You're a spawn of Satan." the priest remarked matter-of-factly, "All the Hail Marys in the world aren't going to help. The Lord will use you and smite you down. He's like that."  
  
"What can I do?" she whimpered, her dark eyes wide with terror.  
  
The priest sighed casually, "Fulfill his plan, child. Be evil. Just give in."  
  
"No!" Drusilla cried desperately, sobbing, "I want to be good. I want to be pure."  
  
"We all do, at first." the outline of the priest's head shook sadly, "The world doesn't work that way.  
  
"Father... I beg you..." she leaned into the screen and pressed her fingertips against it, tears streaming down her cheeks, "Please... Please, help me."  
  
There was a pause as the father shifted in his seat and seemed to be considering her fate. Her stomach twisted in agitation, awaiting his judgement.  
  
"Very well." he relented at last, "Ten Our Fathers and an Act of Contrition. Does that sound good?"  
  
Drusilla sank back, relieved. Such penance was nothing compared to the punishment she had been expecting.   
  
"Yes." she exhaled deeply, releasing her pent-up worry, "Yes, Father. Thank you."  
  
"The pleasure was mine." he answered as she rose from the kneeling platform, "And my child...?"  
  
"Yes?" she paused, swallowing nervously.  
  
"God is watching you." he reminded her ominously.  
  
Smiling uneasily, Drusilla exited the confessional booth and briskly genuflected toward the altar before making a hasty retreat for the main doors. Around the corner of the confessional, a dark clad figure stepped out of the priest's booth and allowed the body of Father Oake to slump lifelessly to the floor. Angelus smiled cunningly and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, his eyes locked on Drusilla's form as she hurried outside.  
  
***  
  
On her way back into town, Drusilla stopped by the market again to pick up the cakes she had promised Joshua. A kindly looking old woman beckoned to her as she passed, pointing to the collection of baked goods on her table.  
  
Drusilla stopped and looked over the selection carefully. She selected four fresh flatcakes flavored with strawberries, Joshua's favorite, and wrapped them in a thin cloth. The woman smiled kindly at her and slipped a fifth into the bundle with a conspiratorial wink.  
  
"For your sweetheart, Luv." She alluded patting the back of Drusilla's hand.  
  
"My sweetheart?" Drusilla cocked her head in polite confusion, "I'm afraid I have no sweetheart."  
  
"Oh dearie, I think that you do. You just don't know it yet." She nodded covertly over Dru's shoulder toward a figure dressed in black and standing casually within the open mouth of an alleyway, "A handsome young man like that doesn't watch a girl unless he's got courtin' in mind."  
  
Whirling about with no regard for ladylike decorum, Drusilla followed the woman's indication. She recognized the young man as the missionary she had met with this morning. He smiled at her, but remained still, content to continue watching her from the late day shadows.  
  
"Um, thank you." She said nervously over her shoulder to the woman, gathering up her bundle of cakes and carefully approaching the missionary.  
  
She walked across the square and stopped a cautious distance from the young man, watching him anxiously.  
  
"Hello again, sweet Miss Abbott." Angelus greeted quietly, "On your way home?"   
  
The tone of his voice was so low that Drusilla unintentionally stepped a little closer to hear him.  
  
"H-hello missionary." She answered, clutching the cloth bundle in her hands tensely, "Y-yes, I have penance to perform before the sun goes down."  
  
"Ah yes, prayers." Angelus nodded sympathetically, "What a pious child you are. Allow me to walk with you. It's almost dark and the ghouls and ghosts will be out soon, no place for a fine young lady such as yerself. After all, God cannot be everywhere."  
  
As he offered out his arm in a gentlemanly manner, Drusilla frowned slightly. All the teachings she had ever learned dictated the exact opposite of his last statement.   
  
Carefully, she took his arm by the elbow and started down the alley. She wasn't sure if she was making a good decision, but the woman from the market had been right. Angelus appeared to be quite a dashing young man and, missionary or not, walking home on his arm was not an unpleasant thought.  
  
Strolling quietly together, they cut across another cobbled street and through a wooded park.   
  
Angelus guided her along a shaded path, keeping under the cool shelter of the birch trees. Never once did the pale sunlight alight upon his intense countenance. Stepping over a small stream, he held Drusilla's hand high, gallantly helping her with her balance as she prepared to cross the tiny impasse.   
  
She hopped over and landed on the edge of the opposite bank immediately in front of him, nearly colliding with his chest.  
  
"Oh!" she exclaimed, teetering precariously before him, unwilling to grab on to him for support.  
  
Angelus' arm snaked around her waist and steadied her, pulling her body close as he held her nervous gaze with his.   
  
Drusilla froze in his strong grasp, losing herself in the depth of his impossibly deep eyes. Her heart was thumping like a trapped bird in her chest and her throat felt tight and dry. She had never been this intensely aware of a man before.   
  
Her fingers brushed along the rough wool of his coat as he lifted her easily and turned, setting her feet down on more solid ground. This close to him, crushed up against the solidity of his chest, she felt anxious and pleasantly disoriented.  
  
"Th-thank you, sir." She smiled weakly, demurely dropping her eyes from his.  
  
He caressed the soft underside of her chin with a surprisingly gentle finger, nudging her face up to look at him, the coolness of his touch elicited a rush of heat from her maidenly skin. He caught her with his gaze again, a faint smile bending his lips and creasing the corners of his eyes.  
  
Drusilla felt her breath quicken and an unfamiliar tightness in her chest. It was as if her lungs had emptied themselves of all breath.  
  
"You're a very beautiful girl, Drusilla." Angelus whispered in a voice filled with warm admiration.  
  
Tightening his arm around her waist, he pulled her close.  
  
Drusilla's lips parted in awe and she hesitated, caught between instinctive curiosity and social propriety, a breathy gasp escaping her soft, pink mouth. There was something at once dangerous and exciting about this man, an aura of mystery that played with her imagination. Closing her eyes, she laid her head against his chest and relaxed in his arms. His touch was so strong and confident and she could smell the heady scent of freshly turned earth from his clothes, like the sweetness of a warm spring day. The surface of her skin began to grow hot, tingling all over, as if her naked body was being kissed by the warmth of the sun on a windless day.  
  
He broke the intimate contact, stepping back slightly, and she reached for him instinctively then stopped herself, dizzily blinking away the haze of her desire.   
  
Angelus smiled congenially at her and raised his eyebrows suggestively, slipping his hands from around her waist and casually dropping them into his pockets.   
  
Realization of what she had just done started to sink in and Drusilla clapped her hand to her mouth in panic and remorse. She had been entertaining impure thoughts. Thoughts that surely were rooted in sin. And about a man of God, at that!  
  
"The Lord has a plan for all creatures. Even a Devil child like you." The father's condemning voice echoed in her memory.  
  
Shame rushed through her and she stepped back, away from Angelus, in horror.   
Tears of self recrimination welled up in her eyes and her mouth quivered in disbelief. She turned, fleeing from the scene and the evil that she had committed, a lump of choking guilt in the back of her throat.  
  
***  
  
It was dark by the time Drusilla ran up the cobblestones to her front door. She found her father waiting for her with a stern expression on his face and his arms folded tightly over his chest.  
  
She was in trouble, she knew it. Daddy never got that look unless he was very angry.  
  
"H-Hello, Daddy." She greeted him fearfully.  
  
In the blink of an eye, her father's hand shot out and clamped painfully around her arm. The bundle of cakes she had bought for Joshua tumbled to the ground and spilled out. Drusilla cried out as he dragged her forcefully into the house and down to her bedroom.  
  
"I spend all day burying two good, righteous men and I come home to hear THIS?!" he shook her angrily, his thick fingers pressing painfully into the soft flesh of her arm.  
  
"W-What are you talking about?" Drusilla wailed, "What did I do?"  
  
"I thought you were a good girl, Dru." He gripped her by both arms and forced her to look into his rage-filled eyes, "I thought we raised you right, but now I know I was wrong."  
  
"Daddy, please!" she cried, trying to shrink in on herself, tears of fear and hurt streaming down her delicate cheeks, "I don't know what you're talking about!"  
  
Her father slammed her up against the wall with enough force to jar the air from her lungs, "John Coleman was here to see you today and your brother had to lie to him. He's a loyal, hard-working young man, more than you deserve after what I've just heard."  
  
"What?" Drusilla cowered timidly before her father's seething anger.  
  
"Where were you just before dark?" he demanded grabbing her arm again and squeezing it, "Where?!"  
  
"I was on my way back from the market. I bought cakes for Joshua." She struggled ineffectually against his steely grip, "Please, Daddy, you're hurting me!"  
  
His dark eyes narrowed accusingly and he gave her arm another squeeze, "Were you with anyone? Did someone walk with you?"  
  
Drusilla gasped, both from shock and the pain in her arm. He knew! Somehow, her father knew that she had been with Angelus in the park! Panic gripped her and her mind began working at a furious pace.  
  
"It was nothing, Daddy, I swear it." She pleaded, fresh tears in her eyes, "I didn't kiss him, I ran away, I did. I ran and -"  
  
Her explanation was cut short by an open-handed slap across her face that knocked her to the floor. Drusilla curled up in terror, clutching her reddened cheek.  
  
"I knew it! Joshua saw you in the midst of your sin!" he kicked her hard in the rear and sent her skidding into her room, "Mucking around in the trees with some boy no one has ever seen before! How dare you!"  
  
"Daddy, no!" Drusilla sat up and covered her head with her arms.  
  
"No more lies! No daughter of mine is going to be tramping around the streets like a whore!" Her father dragged her to her feet and slapped her again across the face, even more forcefully this time, throwing her onto her bed. Turning sharply on his heel, he stormed out of the room and slammed the door thunderously behind him.  
  
Drusilla flinched at the sound, and pressed her face into the embroidered pillow her mother had made for her, bawling until she was almost out of breath. Between ragged tear-choked gasps, she cursed her father for his intolerance, cursed him more for hitting her. She wished the Lord would come down out of the heavens and smite him for what he had done to her. If only she could take back the whole day and start it all over again.   
  
Snuffling and weeping uncontrollably, she didn't notice the figure standing in the darkness outside her window. Angelus' eyes narrowed and his lips thinned, turning upward into a cruel and conniving smirk.  
  
***  
  
Drusilla did not sleep well that night, her dreams consumed by terrifying images of drowning in an ocean of blood. She sat up in her bed and found that Joshua was already gone, no doubt recovered from his illness and out on the boats for hours by this time.  
  
She slipped out from under her quilt and picked up a small hand mirror. Holding it in front of her face, she gingerly touched her fingers to her bruised cheek, testing for pain. It hurt, but at least the mark was barely noticeable, only a slight darkening that would be invisible to the casual observer.   
  
A chill ran down her spine as she realized how unusually quiet the rest of the house was this morning. Putting down the mirror, she quickly dressed and went into the main room.  
  
Her mother was there, sitting silently at the table, holding her head in her hands. The woman was not old, still younger than thirty-five, but this morning her appearance was haggard and ashen. She sat staring blankly at the table top, completely unaware of her daughter's presence.  
  
"M-Mum?" Dru asked, reaching out to touch her still body with a tentative hand.  
  
The woman only stirred slightly at the contact, inhaling a deep, shuddering breath.  
  
"I told him not to go up to that mine." She lamented, staring blindly and shaking her head slowly with grief, "I knew that evil was alurkin' in those hills the second I heard about them miners. Evil, I tell you."  
  
"Mummy, what's wrong?" Drusilla pulled up a chair and sat down next to the near catatonic woman.  
  
Her mother turned her head and stared at her with red-rimmed, grief-filled eyes, blue like Josua's, "They found him in the street this morning, Drusilla. It must have happened in the wee hours, before he opened the store."  
  
"What?" she asked fearfully, "What happened?"  
  
The woman gently took her daughter's hand and cradled it in her lap with both of her own. Her light blue eyes were dull with grief.  
  
"It's your father, dear. He's dead." She seemed to have to force the words from her mouth, "They found him this morning, said he must have been kicked in the face by a horse or somesuch. Joshua is with undertaker now, seeing to the arrangements."  
  
Drusilla rocked back in her chair, stunned by the news. Just last night, she had wished her father dead and now he was. Had her temperamental imaginings translated into reality? She had thought that after her confession, she would be cured of such evil influence, but it seemed to only have made things worse.  
  
Jerking to her feet, her eyes welling with tears, she bolted for the door. She heard her mother call out after her but she kept running heedlessly. Down the walkway and into the street she ran, trying to escape the terror that threatened to destroy her, her shoes clicking on the hard cobblestones. She kept running until she came to the park she had passed through with the missionary. Ducking under the foliage of a thick stand of trees, she tripped on a small rise in the ground and fell to her knees, scraping the tender skin of one of them against a rough stone.   
  
She didn't bother to get up. Instead, she sank the rest of the way down and laid her tear-stained cheek against the cool grass, crying in regret and loss. Her tears flowed unabated until the sound of nearby footsteps startled her. Quickly sitting up, she choked back her sorrow and wiped furiously at her reddened eyes, trying to focus them.  
  
She lifted her head, her bottom lip quivering, and found Angelus standing over her beneath the shade of the thick forest canopy.  
  
"You're crying." He noted softly, crouching down next to her and gently taking her hand in both of his, "What's happened?"  
  
She was so frightened and upset that she threw herself into his embrace and buried her face into his shoulder.  
  
"Oh, Angel, it's terrible! So horrible!" she wailed, "The Devil surely has his hand on my shoulder!"  
  
Above her head, Angelus' lips twitched in an ironic smirk and he folded his arms around her shuddering body.  
  
"The Devil?" he asked in a conversational tone.  
  
"Yes! Yes!" she choked and hiccuped through her tears, "I wished it upon him! I was angry and I wished it! And now he's dead!"  
  
She broke down into a series of wracking sobs while he held her, smiling pleasantly to himself over her head.  
  
"Well, he must have done somethin' to you for you to make a wish like that." He patted her back and stroked her hair comfortingly, "Did he hurt ya? You can tell me."  
  
She pulled herself away from him a little and looked up into his face with swollen eyes. Unable to form the words, she simple nodded miserably, fighting back a fresh bout of sobbing.  
  
"Then let me ask you, Drusilla." He stroked his thumb softly across her cheek, brushing away a hot, crystalline tear, "Is it a terrible thing for such an evil man ta perish?"  
  
"W-What?" she sniffed, wiping at her face, "But me Da, he's not evil. He . . . he loved us."  
  
The dark young man turned his eyes skyward in an expression of beatific faith.  
  
"But is it not the Lord's way ta punish those who are deserving?" He gently tapped the tip of his index finger against the tip of her nose and smiled, "Ta smite them?"  
  
Drusilla shifted uncertainly, dropping her eyes to the ground in confusion. What the missionary was saying made sense, but she couldn't believe it. She wouldn't.  
  
"No, not me Da . . ." she whispered.  
  
"Oh, come now, child." He gently chided her, "Evil often wears a pretty face. That's its nature. Why, you could be the most evil of the Devil's spawn and I would never know it."  
  
"N-no, I'm not evil, I'm not, I swear it!" she protested but inside, she wasn't so sure. She had been told in the confessional that she was evil and that there was no choice for her. And the violent death of her father certainly pointed an accusing finger in her direction.  
  
"Of course you're not, Drusilla." He shook his head with a mild smirk, "Forget all this foolishness and let me help ya back on your feet."   
  
She shifted her legs back under herself and squeaked in pain, clapped her hands to her knee and sucking air wetly through her teeth.  
  
"You're hurt." Angelus reached out and took the hem of her dress in his hands, "Let me see."  
  
As he began to lift the dress, she instinctively clamped her hands around her ankle and pinned the garment to her leg, regarding him with shock and disapproval.  
  
"What are you afraid of?" he chuckled softly at her prudish behavior, "Am I not a man of the cloth? If I am to help, I must see the wound."  
  
She watched him uncertainly for a moment, staring into his deep, dark eyes, and then slowly relented.  
  
"There, see. That's not so bad now, is it?" he grinned, gradually easing the hem of her dress up around her leg.  
  
Drusilla's breath caught in her throat and her cheeks flushed hotly as his hands edged the dress ever higher up her calf. Wherever his cool fingers were in direct contact with her, they traced pleasant tingling lines along her skin. The sensation seemed to trickle through her entire body, slithering up her thigh and setting her blood on fire. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes and tilted her head back, inhaling slow and deeply. His hands continued their gradual, sensuous journey and the dress slipped ever higher until her leg was exposed all the way up to the knee.   
  
"Now isn't THAT a sight?" Angelus smirked, eyeing her shapely limb, "You've gone and cut yerself."  
  
Drusilla blinked and swallowed nervously, collecting her senses and focusing her attention on her knee. She recoiled in fear when she saw the smear of crimson staining her skin. Her mouth worked soundlessly and she fluttered her hands before her in distress. The sight of blood had always frightened her.  
  
"Oohhhh, Heavens!" she squeezed her eyes shut and averted her face.   
  
"Oh, it's nothing." Angelus assured her, "Just a scratch really. Here, let me take care of it."  
  
He bent forward and tenderly touched his cool lips to the wound, dabbing it softly with the tip of his tongue.  
  
A small gasp of pleasure escaped Drusilla's lips and she felt the flush spread through her entire body, coursing in dizzying waves from that small point of contact. He gently traced the tiny cut with his mouth, pulling on it with mild suction and lightly drawing his teeth along the surrounding skin.  
  
It was like every nerve in her body had a direct connection to the trivial cut on her knee and to the soft lips that gently caressed it. Her breath quickened and her hands twitched in the grass as a wave of overpowering need overtook her, flooding through her bloodstream.  
  
As she arched her back suddenly and released a quiet moan, her fingertips digging unconsciously into the soft earth, he pulled away abruptly and she felt the wonderful connection end. Her eyes snapped open and she lifted her head, panting, and looked to her knee. Completely clean, the wound was almost invisible now.  
  
"There," Angelus smiled kindly, standing over her and offering out his hand, "A little kiss to make it better and you're as good as new."  
  
Drusilla swallowed in disorientation and pressed her palm to the base of her throat in an attempt to calm her heavy breathing. A little kiss? Her blood was thrumming through her veins and warm tingles had started in her middle and reached all the way down to her toes. She had never been kissed by a man before, at least not in the way of a man and a woman. Was this how all such kisses felt?   
  
"Yes . . . thank you." She gripped his hand and allowed him to pull her to her feet. She stumbled a bit, weak in the knees, and she wasn't sure whether it was because of the fall or not.  
  
He waited until she steadied herself then smoothed down the sleeves of her dress, taking a half step closer and looking down at her. She wondered if he might try to kiss her again and her heart quickened in anticipation.  
  
"What will you do without yer Da?" he asked.  
  
Drusilla's face flushed with embarrassment. Of course, there would be no kiss. He was only concerned for her well-being, the way all men of the cloth were trained to think. It had been foolish and self-absorbed of her to think his interest fell anywhere but within the boundaries of his occupation.  
  
"I suppose Joshua will have to take care of us now." She shrugged uncertainly, ducking her head to conceal the rosy tinge of her cheeks, "And perhaps I'll become a schoolteacher."  
  
Angelus cocked his head slightly and raised his eyebrows with interest.  
  
"Joshua?" he queried politely.  
  
"My baby brother. He works on the fishing boats sometimes." She revealed with a touch of sadness, "He'll have to be working all the time, now that . . .now that . . ." she trailed off and her face became stricken with grief.  
  
Angelus reached for her, his eyes warm with dark hunger. The branches overhead shifted in the breeze, letting a tiny, weak beam of sunlight through, and he immediately backed against the bole of the tree.  
  
Drusilla didn't notice the agitated movement and bit her lip worriedly.  
  
"I must be getting back. Me Mum will be worried and we still have to figure out what we'll do with ourselves." She touched his arm gently with her hand then quickly withdrew it, "Thank you for your help, kind missionary."  
  
"Please, call me Angel." He favored her with a friendly smile.  
  
"Angel, then." She agreed, slowly backing away, watching him with a faint smile peeking through her downcast features.  
  
He watched her as she turned and ran through the weak, dappled sunlight, and the hunger gnawed at him from within. She was so sweet, so innocent, he longed to take her now, but he restrained himself again. The game had just begun, no need to spoil it. Too many times, he had killed without thought, gorged before he even understood the nature of his prey. Not this time. A creature such as Drusilla only came along once in a long while. He would take his time with her, savor the experience. For, in the end, it would all pass so fleetingly.  
  
"Joshua." He murmured to himself and sneered, considering. Yes, this was most certainly something to be savored.  
  
***  
  
Rain poured down from the drab, gray sky in a seemingly unending torrent, saturating the air with chill dampness. The funeral goers were all gathered under a tarpaulin that had been erected as shelter from the downpour while they paid their respects. All dressed in black and shivering from the dampness, they only served to further darken an already painfully somber service.  
  
Drusilla pulled her black shawl tightly about her shoulders and huddled into the crowd for warmth, sniffling quietly to herself. Less than ten feet away, a sharp edged coffin sat waiting to be lowered into the earth. Wood from his workshop had been used to make that coffin, she knew. Her father would be buried with the material that had been his livelihood in life.  
  
She wished she could see him one last time, look at his smiling face again. Anything to replace the last memory she had of him. But she wouldn't dare consider peeking into the casket. Even without the vicious rainstorm, the coffin lid would have been kept closed. The rumors said that his face had been so badly mutilated when they had discovered him that it had taken six men to arrive on scene before two could be found who could withstand the sight of it long enough to move him.   
  
Her dark eyes filled with worry and guilt twisted inside her as she remembered her wish again. That night seemed like half a lifetime ago although, in reality, it had barely been three days.  
  
A gentle hand touched her shoulder from behind and Joshua squeezed in next to her. He didn't look good at all. His hair was wet and clung to his face in haphazard sprigs and his delicate skin appeared even more pale than usual. Even his lips were pallid. Drusilla noted that his cheeks were sunken and that dark, unhealthy circles had formed around his crystal blue eyes, now dull. She wondered how long it had been since the last time he had slept.  
  
"I didn't truly see you, you know." He said in a quiet, even voice, his eyes fastened straight ahead on the coffin.  
  
"What?" she asked, perplexed.  
  
"In the forest with the strange man." He elaborated, his gaze still fixed, "I saw it with my vision, not my eyes."  
  
His vision. He was referring to the unearthly things that his sight often showed him, she realized.  
  
"I saw the Cold Man with you in the forest." He continued, "I saw you fall and he kissed your blood."  
  
What little color she had drained from Drusilla's face and her stomach lurched with dread. How could Joshua have known? She hadn't experienced Angelus' kiss until after her father had been found dead. Was her brother beginning to have premonitions too?  
  
"Be careful, Dru." He warned her ominously.   
  
She smiled nervously and rested her hand on his shoulder.   
  
"Don't be afraid, baby brother." She reassured him, "I'll keep safe, I promise."  
  
"The darkness is gathering all around us." Joshua's jaw tightened and he bit his lip until it bled, his eyes wide and distantly fearful, "I can see it."   
  
"Joshua?" she reached for his face in concern, frightened by his intensity.  
  
Their mother emerged from a tight group of well-wishers, outfitted in a black dress and veil, the mourning garb of a widow.  
  
"What have we done to deserve this, oh Lord?!" she wailed at the sky, her hands clenched into tiny fists and fresh tears streaming down her cheeks.  
  
Joshua broke from his trance and went immediately to console her, taking her in his arms and holding her. He seemed a decade older today than he had three days ago, Dru noted. He was the man of the house now, responsible for both herself and their mother. The burden appeared to already be taking a toll on his delicate spirit.  
  
A hand brushed her shoulder and she started, turning swiftly. Standing before her was a towering young man with sandy colored hair and a handsome, friendly face that was clouded with sympathy and sadness. He was well built, with broad shoulders and bright, intelligent brown eyes, with a faint tracing of a light, immaculately-trimmed beard along his jaw. The rain had soaked him through, but he appeared unbothered by it.  
  
"John!" she exclaimed in surprise.  
  
It had been almost a week since she had seen him last. Back then, she used to hold her breath nervously whenever he passed and entertain childish dreams of marriage when she had a quiet moment to herself. But, today, after all that had happened, she hadn't even been aware of him as he approached.  
  
"Hello, Dru." He said, his voice respectful and somber, "I'm sorry to hear about your Da."   
  
He always spoke to her in a placid tone, as if, because of his size, he might run the risk of harming her with normal volume. Her gentle giant.  
  
"I know. Thank you." A slight smile poked through the veil of her sadness.  
  
He took her hand carefully in his, completely engulfing it.   
  
"If there's anything you or your family needs, don't hesitate to ask." He offered kindly, "Me and me Da are here for you if you need it."  
  
At least a dozen other people had made similar promises to her that day, mostly out of politeness and shock over the violent death of her father, but, unlike them, John was completely believable. Something about the way he looked her right in the eye with total faith in his words.  
  
She smiled nervously and dropped her eyes, staring at the massive hand that was closed so tenderly over hers.   
  
"Thank you, John." She answered, touched by his sincerity, "Again."  
  
He stood before her, silent and still as a statue, just holding her hand. The comforting contact eased some of the sorrow that burdened her heart.  
  
"Can I see you later?" he asked in his giant's whisper, "After the service? I can help out with anything you need around the house."  
  
"I-I'd like that."  
  
"Tomorrow, then." He promised, releasing her hand with reluctance, his warm brown eyes holding hers.  
  
As he dutifully went to pay his respects to both Joshua and her mother, another familiar person approached her, appearing from the crowd as if by magic.  
  
Anne threw her arms around Drusilla, hugging her tightly.  
  
"I heard what happened, Dru." The blonde girl whispered, her throat tight with tears, "I'm so sorry."  
  
Drusilla returned the embrace, taking a brief moment of comfort from the contact. The blonde girl clung to her tightly, almost painfully, rocking her with short sharp jerks. When Anne withdrew, Drusilla was shocked at what she saw. The girl looked to be in worse shape than Joshua. Her skin was pale and blotched with a faint pinkness and her lips were dry and tinged with blue. Her once silken hair was dull and unkempt, hanging about her face in lank tendrils. Too much white was showing in her eyes and dark smudges marred the lids, making her appearance haunted.   
  
"Anne, what's happened to you?" she gasped quietly.  
  
"Oh, I know I must look dreadful." The girl fretted self-consciously, dropping her gaze and pawing at her hair in an attempt to smooth it against her head, "But there's been no time. I haven't slept in days."  
  
Drusilla felt an eerie chill shoot through her and she grasped her friend's hand tightly. The fingers were terribly cold, like death.  
  
"I'm sorry I had to tell you this way, Dru." Anne blubbered tearfully, almost hysterically, inhaling sharply and rubbing her free hand roughly across her running nose, "What with all that's gone on with you and your family, I just wish I could have found another time."  
  
"Anne, what are you talking about?" she gave the girl's hand a sharp squeeze to get her attention, "What is it?"  
  
Anne stopped fidgeting and calmed herself, hanging her head like a guilty child. Sniffing back her tears, she took a few deep breaths and released them slowly.  
  
"I'm leaving London." She whispered, her voice a tragic note of loss, "Forever."  
  
"What?" Dru felt her face go blank with shock and she squeezed her friend's hand.  
  
"It's my sweetheart." The blonde confided softly, "He says he'll take me tonight."  
  
Drusilla's brow furrowed. Anne sounded sick and a little desperate, not ecstatic like she would have expected. She watched as the girl rubbed unconsciously at the top of her thigh as if the limb was bothering her, her fingers trembling uncontrollably.  
  
"I have to go Dru." She apologized abruptly, peering skittishly over her shoulder, "He won't wait for me. I have to go."  
  
Drusilla held on to the girl's hand as she tried to retreat.  
  
"Wait." She said, "When are you leaving. I'll come see you off."  
  
Anne flinched for no apparent reason and caught the edge of her sleeve between her teeth in a nervous, child-like manner, "I can't, Dru. I can't tell you. Oh, I would so love to, but I can't. We must get away during the night. To avoid me Dad."  
  
She tugged on her hand to retrieve it and stared at Drusilla's hold on her, seeming to be suddenly upset by the contact and hovering on the edge of tears.  
  
"Please, Dru, let me go. I have to go to my sweetheart."  
  
Disturbed by Anne's strange behavior, she released her. The blonde gathered her skirt up in her hands and hurried away, splashing heedlessly through the deep puddles.  
  
Drusilla watched her, her dark eyes deep with worry and nervousness turning in her stomach. She wondered what Joshua would see if he turned his particular vision in Anne's direction. Something was certainly wrong with her and Drusilla doubted that running away with her new boyfriend was going to help the situation, whoever he was.  
  
Behind her, Joshua watched Anne as well, his pale blue eyes strained with focus. His jaw quivering, he clenched his teeth against the inside of his lip in agitation, bringing forth another thin stream of blood into his mouth.  
  
***  
  
Drusilla sighed forlornly as she folded up the last of her father's clothes. There was no point in keeping them. Joshua would never grow to be as broad as their father had been and there were no other close male relatives to give them to.   
  
The shock of her father's passing made it all seem surreal. She kept expecting him to come walking through the door and pull her into his lap the way he used to. The house seemed so empty and silent now that he was gone.  
  
"Dru?" a man's voice asked from the doorway.  
  
Her face lit up and she spun around quickly.  
  
"Da-?" she froze, seeing that it was Joshua who had spoken.  
  
He leaned against the doorway, looking a little better than he had during the service yesterday. His crystal blue eyes were clearer and the dark circles around them had lessened.  
  
"You have a gentleman caller." He said with a slight, approving smile, the first positive expression he had shown since learning of his father's passing, "It's John Coleman."  
  
Drusilla hastily straightened her dress and smoothed her dark hair back away from her face. She had been expecting John for most of the day but as nightfall approached, she had become less hopeful. Inhaling deeply to steady her nerves, she waited a moment before following her brother into the main room.  
  
Her mother sat at the table, solemn and grief-stricken, and Joshua took the chair next to her, covering her hands with his. He seemed to be the only one who could pull her out of the withdrawn state she had slipped into since losing her husband.  
  
John stooped in the doorway, his full height an inch or so higher than the ceiling. His normally jovial face looked heavy and worn and his brown eyes wandered in a constant circle from her brother to her mother to herself.  
  
"John, how good to see you." She greeted, crossing the small room in a few long strides, "Can I get you anything?"  
  
The giant man shifted uneasily and cleared his throat, folding his huge hands together at his waist.  
  
"Um, no. Thank you." He swallowed nervously, "I can't stay."  
  
"Oh?" she tried not to let her disappointment show.   
  
"A group of men are taking their guns up into the hills." He nodded softly, "I-I've volunteered to go with them."  
  
"The hills?" Joshua looked up from consoling his mother and frowned, "What's going on?"  
  
"There's word of a . . .a rabid wolf on the loose. We're going to get rid of it." The tall man sounded almost apologetic.  
  
"A wolf? What makes you think . . .?" Joshua's eyes went wide and his lips parted in horror, "Dear heavens, no . . . Anne."  
  
John only bowed his head, his face stricken.  
  
"No one knew how to tell you, what with all that's happened." He explained regretfully, "But you had to know."  
  
"What?!" Drusilla demanded frantically, grabbing hold of John's forearm, "Why are you talking that way? What's happened to Anne?"  
  
John looked down at her with a miserable expression. Placing his hands on her delicate shoulders, he held her steady and cleared his throat again.  
  
"Last night . . ." he stroked her hair with more gentleness than it seemed his big hands should have been capable of, "she got . . . she was . . . killed."  
  
Drusilla gasped sharply and stepped back in shock, tears welling up in her dark, soulful eyes. Joshua pulled her into a comforting hug, his expression steady and grim. John sighed heavily and pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat.  
  
"They found her on the edge of town. Her body had been . . . had . . ." he looked to Joshua, unable to continue, "That's why we suspect a wolf. Maybe more than one."  
  
Drusilla pressed her hand to her quivering mouth and sniffed, releasing a long, shuddering breath. Anne must have been attacked while waiting for her sweetheart. It was so tragic. Just a few more hours and she would have been safely out of London with him. Safely away from the curse that Drusilla seemed to be carrying with her wherever she went.   
  
"I must be on my way. They're waiting for me." John announced, hesitating in the doorway, "I want the three of you to stay indoors tonight. At least until we find this thing."  
  
Drusilla touched her hand to his and nodded up at him in agreement, "We will."  
  
As he turned reluctantly and left, Joshua reached for his coat and pulled it on.  
  
"Where are you going?" Drusilla hooked her hands around his arm, "Weren't you listening to John? It's dangerous to go out now."  
  
Joshua smoothed his dark hair out of his eyes and regarded her with a serious expression.  
  
"I'm going to the undertaker's." he said with worry apparent in his eyes, "I have to see her body."  
  
"Joshua?" she whispered, horrified.  
  
"Stay with Mum." He pulled his arm free of her grasp and went for the door, "I can't explain it but I have to do this."  
  
Drusilla watched helplessly as her baby brother exited in a hurry, practically running down the cobbled walkway. With a deep sigh, she sank into the chair next to her mother's.  
  
Seeming to rouse from her lethargy, the woman lifted her head and scowled to herself.  
  
"Fool girl." she muttered in a low, condemning voice, "Trystin' in the woods at night like that. Deserved to get bit if you ask me."  
  
Drusilla's head snapped up and she stared, stunned by her mother's inexplicable observance.  
  
***  
  
Joshua marched steadily down the street, his face creased with worry. The undertaker's place was almost clear across the city and every step fueled a growing sense of foreboding within him. He had made this same trek not four days ago, on the morning when his father's body had been found. He'd hoped to never have to make it again.  
  
Thunder rumbled ominously and Joshua eyed the darkening sky cautiously. The clouds had not cleared since yesterday's downpour but at least it had stopped raining. He hoped that the respite would hold out a while longer.  
  
Bravely, he pressed on, but he was afraid. He had been that way ever since the morning of the mine disaster. The visions he'd had that day had been so powerful that it had sickened him, twisting his stomach into knots and afflicting him with a stabbing headache. He'd been having more frequent occurrences since then, as well.   
  
Normally, when his Second Sight asserted itself, he could see things that were invisible to the average person. Not actual visions, but something akin to an extra dimension to what his normal sight showed him. On people, this extra dimension manifested as a visible aura, complete with color, shape, texture and an animated life all its own. Subtleties in this aura could reveal a great deal about a person if interpreted correctly. For the last four days, however, he had been afflicted with a perception that far outdistanced his normal extrasensory ability.  
  
Auras had begun to blaze like miniature sunsets before his eyes and the information they conveyed was no longer limited to the past and present. Future events hung like specters in the air around the people he saw, showing him jumbled pictures of what was to be. Worse, he couldn't find a way to shut it off. The occurrences of his power had become more frequent lately until it seemed that the Sight had become a permanent part of his senses.   
  
Yesterday, when he had looked at Anne, the sense of death he had received from her had been staggering. It had clung to her like a cloud of pure evil, polluting her normally bright innocence. Far more sinister than something as natural as a wolf, he was sure. Just a short time ago, he had seen a similarly disturbing energy surrounding his sister. The realization had sickened him with dread.   
  
Every time he looked at his sister, he could see the indefinable tragedy that was destined to befall her.  
  
But not if Joshua could help it. If his gift truly was showing him a picture of the future, no matter how difficult to interpret, then he would turn it to his advantage. No matter what the cost, he would rescue his sister from the impending darkness.  
  
When he reached the undertaker's place, he hesitated uncertainly outside the door. He wasn't sure what he expected to see when he viewed Anne's body, but he had to find out. Inhaling a deep breath, he took hold of the knob and opened the door.  
  
The undertaker, a surprisingly young looking man who was actually in his early forties, stood up from behind his desk and smiled a greeting.  
  
"Joshua Abbott." He circled out from behind the desk, "What brings you here this afternoon? I hear that your father's service went well?"  
  
Joshua fidgeted and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Mister Lowell was a good man, but he seemed far too casual about death and its trappings. Perhaps life as an undertaker made such things appear normal.  
  
"It was fine, thank you." He answered uncomfortably, "But that's not why I'm here."  
  
"Oh?" Mister Lowell slipped his wire-rimmed spectacles off and caught the earpiece between his teeth in interest, "Then what did bring you here?"  
  
Joshua started to pace a wide, slow circle around the room, unable to meet Mister Lowell's eyes directly.  
  
"It's about Anne." He revealed in a low voice, "Anne Guthrie."  
  
The undertaker's hand shot to his mouth and his face became gray with genuine sadness.  
  
"Oh, that dear, poor child." He shook his head sadly, "Never have I seen such tragedy. To die so young and in the way that she did . . ."  
  
He turned and sighed, staring out the window at the gloomy afternoon sky with troubled eyes.  
  
Joshua swallowed tensely, "It was a wolf then?"  
  
Mister Lowell's gaze became more disturbed and he rubbed his chin, his lips tight.  
  
"That's what they say." He responded shortly, a slight tell-tale tremble in his voice.  
  
"What do you say it was?"  
  
The older man sighed and shook his head slowly, pivoting away from the window and facing Joshua again.  
  
"To be absolutely honest, I don't know what I think." He said tiredly, "All I know is that the body of a pretty young girl was brought into my shop this morning in a most atrocious condition. And I have to do my best to try and clean her up for the service."  
  
Joshua bit his lip, his heart beating hollowly in his chest, and looked to Mister Lowell imploringly.  
  
"Show me." He said.  
  
"What?" Mister Lowell ducked behind his desk, putting it between himself and the dark-haired young man, "Y-You don't know what you're asking lad. I've become accustomed to dealing with the dead. This young lady is no sight for the squeamish."  
  
"I need to see her." Joshua reiterated with conviction, "The fate of my family may depend on it."  
  
Mister Lowell hesitated, worried and unsure, but relented and fished out a metal key from under his desk.  
  
"You must understand, Joshua, that this is highly irregular." He mentioned as he turned the key in the lock of a sturdy wooden door in the back, "It wouldn't do for the young lady's kin to hear word of it."  
  
"I won't say anything." Joshua followed him in through the door, close behind.  
  
The room was strangely cold and there was a dark brown sheet covering something on a long wooden table. Mister Lowell went to one end of it and laid his hands on the edge of the sheet.  
  
"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" he asked, begging the young man with his eyes to reconsider.  
  
"I'm certain." Joshua folded his arms across his chest and braced himself as the undertaker lowered his eyes and removed the sheet.  
  
Joshua gasped in horror and stepped back from the sight that had waited underneath. Although her body had been arranged in a peaceful pose, it was obvious that the girl had died consumed with terror. The stench of it still clung to her.  
  
Her pale flesh was marked with dark, angry bruises and scored with dozens of long, thin cuts. Pockets of dark, hemorrhaged blood had gathered in areas, distorting the natural curves of her soft flesh. Parts of her were awkwardly set, misshapen by the broken bones underneath, and her spine looked like it had been twisted out of joint in a couple of places. A deep, bloody cross had been carved into her left cheek and, below that, along the side of her throat was a set of bruised teethmarks that looked to have been ripped instead of pierced.  
  
Joshua shuddered and felt his stomach knot up in revulsion. Anne had been viciously brutalized before being killed. She hardly looked real to him now. No wolf had done this to her, he realized. A wolf would only attack out of fear or hunger, or to protect its family. This atrocity had been mmotivated by sheer cruelty.   
  
Sadly, he stepped up to the table and reached out to touch her still face. Even in death, mutilated and disgraced, she still held a certain beautiful purity.  
  
As regretful tears gathered in his eyes, the backs of his fingers caressed her cool cheek and the world exploded inside his mind. Screaming in pain, he clapped his hands to the sides of his head, digging his fingers into his scalp and falling to his knees.  
  
He was running blindly, the pain in his lungs almost as much as the pain in his heart. Tears ran freely down his face and mingled with the blood gushing from the ragged-edged cut in the side of his neck. A dozen similar wounds scored the flawless skin of his chest, arms and shoulders, turning his dress into a crimson, blood-soaked mess.   
  
Joshua continued to run, his small feet pounding against the uneven forest floor as he barreled carelessly into the thick brush. Sharp branches clawed at his face and stabbed painfully into his breasts, but he continued heedlessly. The danger that was closing on him from behind far outweighed the risk of running blind through the forest.  
  
Strong, vise-like arms seized him from behind, squeezing him tightly enough to jolt the breath from his lungs. He tried to scream, the way his mother had told him to, but the only noise that escaped his bleeding throat was a weak airy gasp.   
  
A cool cheek pressed itself against his from behind and soft lips brushed his ear. Only minutes ago, that mouth had been pressed passionately over his, but then he had felt the pain of sharp teeth and blood had flowed. And then the chase had begun.  
  
Strong fingers rubbed roughly across his wounded body, splitting the many cuts in his flesh wider, and a chilling voice whispered loving promises of torment and despair into his ear.  
  
A swift wrench and his spine twisted sharply sideways, the sheer agony stealing away his breath. The arms released him roughly and the forest floor rushed up and smashed into him. He lay struggling futilely on the bed of spongy pine needles, his crumpled body refusing to respond adequately to his wishes. He had thought for an instant when he first hit the ground that he was paralyzed, but paralysis equated with numbness and he had never felt such incredible pain before in his life.   
  
His pursuer knelt down over him and stroked a chill metal talon across his cheek, slicing down and then across in the shape of the cross.  
  
"It's time. my love." a sinister voice leered softly.  
  
Joshua screamed, flailing wildly with his arms and clawing at the empty air in terror. Gasping for breath, he slowly cracked his eyes open and lowered his trembling arms to his sides. He was back in Mister Lowell's shop, in possession of his own body again. He climbed to his feet and straightened his clothing, his senses slowly reasserting themselves. The vision had been so powerful, so complete, that he was left reeling. Disturbing afterimages still swam before his clouded, crystal-blue eyes.   
  
Mister Lowell stared at him with a wide, open mouth and a slack expression on his face.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked, offering a steadying arm and then retracting it uncertainly.   
  
Joshua leaned heavily against the wall, using it as a guide and pulling himself along it toward the door.  
  
"I-I have to leave." He kept his eyes shut, afraid of what he still might see if he opened them, "Thank you for your help, Mister Lowell."  
  
Moving by touch alone, he found the door and pulled it open, stumbling outside into the cool evening air. He could hear Mister Lowell hovering in the doorway behind him.  
  
"Joshua?" he called, "Are you sure you are alright?"  
  
The young man ignored him, clutching his forehead and staggering into the street. He stopped and leaned against a thick tree to catch his breath. Tentatively, he eased his eyelids open and was relieved to find that the sickening remnants of the vision had passed. Biting the inside of his lip in troubled thought, he started on the road for home.   
  
It frightened him to think of it. His particular vision was becoming stronger, unmanageable, confronting him with things he was not prepared to see. He had less control of it now than ever before and he feared that the growing stress on his psyche might break him. Even now, he could feel the tide waiting to engulf him.   
  
The road forked, the right branch snaking up the hill, becoming more weather worn and dusty in the distance while the other circled around at a slightly downward angle. He had come up the lower branch on his way to Mister Lowell's, but the right branch followed a shorter route. Looking up into the dark sky, he opted for the right hand fork and pressed on, his lungs laboring somewhat as he mounted the steep, rocky slope.  
  
He approached a wooden bridge spanning a deep, narrow gorge. It was a commonly used shortcut for those who often traveled from one end of the city to the other. Someone had lit the single oil-filled lamp that hung from the center support beam and it rocked back and forth slightly, giving off a weak yellowish glow.  
  
As Joshua took his first step onto the bridge, a figure at the opposite end mirrored his movement. Joshua froze, staring at the dark-clad man, his foot braced against the sturdy old wood. A sick feeling crawled over the surface of his skin and cold fear settled like lead in his stomach.   
  
The man strolled forward, the light from the lamp spilling over his features and throwing stark shadows into the hollows of his eyes. He was smiling, but the expression held no kindness or mirth. It was the greedy smile of a predator.  
  
"Hello, Joshua." He greeted, using the name with familiarity, as if they had known each other for a long time.  
  
"I know who you are." Joshua took an unsteady step backward, swallowing a lump in his throat.  
  
"Oh?" the man cocked an interested eyebrow, continuing his slow, careless approach, "Do tell."  
  
Joshua narrowed his eyes and set both feet firmly on the lip of the bridge, determined to stand his ground.  
  
"You're the darkness that's been plaguing Drusilla and me family." He accused, reaching inside his shirt and withdrawing a pewter crucifix, "You-you murdered Anne Guthrie."  
  
Angelus stopped less than three feet from him, his dark eyes studying the metal pendant with amusement.  
  
"They say 'tis folly to place such faith in icons." In the blink of an eye, his hand swept across Joshua's throat, snatching away the pendant and tossing it over the side of the bridge, "I'm inclined to agree."  
  
Joshua started at the swift movement, awed and frightened by its speed and ferocity. A slight, residual stink of burnt flesh wafted on the breeze. His eyes itched and he could see the evil surrounding the man clearly now, like a halo of pure blackness, shot through with veins of red hatred and yellow cruelty.   
  
Angelus slipped a small metal object of his own out of his pocket and placed it over the end of his thumb.  
  
Fear washed over Joshua, demanding that he turn and flee, but he refused. No matter what, he would stand up to the darkness. He would protect his sister.  
  
As the dark-clad man's hand closed around his throat, Joshua closed his eyes and silently prayed to the Lord for mercy.  
  
***  
  
Drusilla wandered back into her room and sat down on the edge of her bed, pressing her hand to her forehead. She was so tired. She had been losing sleep for more than a week with the dream visions and the last few days had only made thing worse. The recent emotional drain had camouflaged her exhaustion with depression, but now it was becoming apparent.  
  
Stretching out, she laid back on the mattress, releasing a long, tense breath and letting her eyes sag shut. She would only rest for a minute or two, just enough to restore some of her flagging energy. Only a minute.  
  
As she drifted off, a terrible fear rose up inside her, drowning her like a massive flood. She struggled and kicked, striving desperately for the surface. Something was holding her down, keeping her from reaching the air. Crippling pain blossomed across her midsection and she screamed, releasing the last of her precious air. Weakened, she started to sink slowly into the abyss.  
  
The pressing darkness thinned and her gradual descent became a hurtling fall. Wind whistled past her ears and terror rushed through her in sickening waves. She hit water again with lung-jarring force, plunging into the chill depths and touching the sandy bottom.  
  
She opened her eyes and found herself laying on her back across a sandy, sunny lakeshore. A deep shadow fell over her, blocking out the bright sunshine overhead. She looked up, squinting into the stray beams that broke past the edges of the tall silhouette. Fearfully, she recoiled from it.  
  
The black outline crouched down over her and placed a gentle hand against her cheek.  
  
"Joshua." She smiled, recognizing her brother's kind features and delicate blue eyes.  
  
Her terror quickly receded as he helped her to her feet and enfolded her in a comforting, brotherly hug. She rested her head on his shoulder and relaxed, feeling the warm tickle of sand under her bare feet.  
  
"Run, Drusilla." He whispered harshly into her ear, "He's coming."  
  
His body tensed suddenly, going taut and rigid with pain, and he was jerked away from her by an invisible hand.  
  
"Run, Dru!" he cried, a long cut opening by itself across his left cheek, spilling vermilion blood down his chest, "RUN!"  
  
She hesitated, paralyzed with fright as Joshua's face twisted in pain and a second cut opened perpendicular to the first, forming the shape of a cross on his cheek.   
  
He fought desperately against his unseen attacker, choking and kicking his feet, "GO!!!"  
  
Consumed with terror, Drusilla turned and fled blindly, running as hard as she could but she gained no ground. Her feet felt like they were mired in tar and the cold hands of Joshua's invisible tormentor closed around her from behind.  
  
She jerked upright on her bed, panting in fear and her heart pounding wildly in her chest. She blinked away tears of fright and gaped in horror as the last moments of the dream burned into her memory. Joshua . . .   
  
***  
  
Lightning flashed and thunder ripped deafeningly through the night sky. Rain threatened and the clouds were dark and angry, filling the air with tense static. Propped from the bridge's center post, the guttering lamp jostled back and forth in the steady breeze, casting harsh, orange-tinged shadows across the faces of the two men standing on the bridge.  
  
Joshua gritted his teeth in utter agony and gasped desperately for breath as he hung precariously close to the edge. Angelus held him by the collar of his shirt in a tireless, steely grip, the boy's feet dangling just inches above the wood. Below them, a deep ravine dropped away into a layer of thick, white mist.  
  
"I'm not afraid of you, demon!" Joshua grunted over his shoulder, his soft blue eyes wide and straining against the pain. His breath was quick and short with terror, but he refused to feed his captor's sick need by letting it show.  
  
A cross-shape had been gouged into his cheek, cut so deep as to almost have pushed through to the other side, and blood ran freely from it over his jaw and down his neck.  
  
Angelus drew his thumb across the boy's stomach, slicing a deep rent with the sharpened metal spike that capped the digit like a silver talon. Lightning flashed again, followed by a rumbling peal of thunder that swallowed Joshua's screams as he spasmed, shuddering with the searing waves of torment that wracked his body. His muscles taut, he jerked straight, his voice cracking with strain. Then the first rush of agony passed and he was finally able to breathe again.   
  
"You'll pay for your sins one day." he gasped weakly, "I can see it. Your destiny . . . clings to you . . . like a shroud."  
  
Angelus leered and traced his fingers along the edges of the boy's belly wound, drawing them away covered in crimson gore. Joshua bit back another scream, his face twisted and pale, as his torturer touched the blood reverently to his lips and tasted it with a satisfied smile.  
  
"And who will collect such a costly price, Joshua?" Angelus chuckled, sucking greedily at his fingertips, "You?"   
  
Viciously, he jammed his hand into the open belly wound, twisting his fingers deep. Joshua cried out in blinding pain and kicked wildly, sour vomit surging up his throat and exploding from his lips to spill down over the front of his shirt and into the gorge below. Hot tears squeezed from between his tightly held eyelids as he hung defenseless, impaled on the vampire's cruel hand.  
  
"Th-the . . .Lord." he groaned weakly, slumping forward into dull agony, exhausted and covered in sweat, "You . . . you will suffer His . . . His . . . divine vengeance."  
  
"The Lord?" Angelus sneered, "I don't believe in things I can't see. Afraid I'm not much for penance either." He smirked, working his fingers into the boy's slick guts, "But don't wait for me. It might be a good plan for you to make your peace with the Almighty while you can."  
  
Joshua grunted and coughed, his empty stomach clenching in the aftershocks of the crippling torture, his throat strained beyond sound.  
  
"No more screams?" Angelus affected a disappointed pout, "Guess it's pointless if there's no one around to hear you."  
  
Angelus looked down through the mists and made out the dim shapes of a gathering crowd of onlookers. They milled around below and squinted up into the gloom, unsure of what they were seeing.  
  
"Then again." The vampire snickered evilly, "Maybe a good show would be worthwhile after all."  
  
He closed his fist around Joshua's entrails, slicing through with his silver thumb-spike. A tormented shriek that could have come from the deepest pit of Hell ripped itself from the young man's throat amid a stream of bloody vomit, echoing through the night.  
  
The small crowd below jumped as one and stared fearfully up at the bridge, startled by the ear-piercing sound. Some of them began to point, their mouths hanging wide with surprise. By the light of the single lamp, they couldn't see Angelus' dark-clad form, only Joshua as he appeared to hang by an invisible thread, screaming and throwing his limbs about.  
  
"Look, it's young Joshua Abbott!"  
  
"He's going to jump!"  
  
Angelus leaned close pressed his cheek against the gaping wound in Joshua's face, smearing the blood across them both.  
  
"Do you hear that?" he breathed into the young man's ear, "They think you're mad, that you're up here raving to the Devil. If only they knew, hm?"  
  
Joshua's head lolled forward, half-conscious, his eyes rolled up white and the lids fluttering.   
  
"Come on, don't leave on me now." Angelus smiled cheerfully, removing his hand from Joshua's midsection and slapping him lightly across the face, "Give me one more good scream before the big finish."  
  
Joshua lifted his head weakly, his own blood staining his face and mixing with the drool and vomit on his chin. He cracked his eyes open, his crystal blue irises awash in a storm of pain.  
  
"P-Penance, Angelus." He whispered with a short, bitter laugh, sick beyond fear, "Remember it . . ."  
  
Angelus snarled, slamming a straight-fingered hand into the young man's stomach, twisting deeply into the bloody cavity. Joshua screamed and convulsed, his limbs flopping wildly, and tears cut through the blood on his cheeks.  
  
"Good-bye, Joshua." Angelus grinned, throwing his arms sharply forward and releasing his grip.  
  
Joshua shrieked piercingly as he hurtled headlong into the gorge. His body disappeared into the roiling mists and his scream continued for a moment before it was abruptly cut short.   
  
Standing on the edge of the bridge, Angelus whistled low and long, wincing at the imagined impact. He turned his dark gaze to the gathered crowd below once more and smiled. Slipping his hands casually into his pockets, he slowly strolled away, humming a cheery tune.  
  
***  
  
Drusilla set a bowl of warm soup in front of her mother and gently slid it across the table toward her. News of Joshua's death had arrived soon after the fact and it had rocked the broken remains of their household to the foundation. They had told her that he had lost his way in the dark and stumbled over the edge of a ravine, but other voices, ones she had not been meant to hear, said other things. They whispered about Joshua's secret discourse with the Devil, about how he had brought evil down upon himself and his family. And that he had paid the price for his dark dealings. But Drusilla knew the real reason behind the harm that had befallen them during the past week. The Father had told her in the confessional.   
  
"Come now, Mum," she urged, "You have to eat."  
  
Her mother weakly pushed the bowl away, her eyes distant and red-rimmed.  
  
"I don't want it." She complained, "Where's Joshua?"  
  
Drusilla inhaled a sorrowful breath. He had been gone for three days now and she was still unable to accept reality. Three days. The Lord had risen after three days. But Joshua's body hadn't even been found, lost somewhere at the bottom of the gorge. And something told her that God had few blessed miracles planned for her future.  
  
"It's all that seein' that did him in." her mother muttered to herself, staring blankly at the tabletop.  
  
"Mum?" Dru placed her hand on her mother's arm and leaned forward in concern.  
  
The woman pulled away, flinching skittishly from the contact, turning her gaze toward the window.  
  
"He had the Devil in his eyes, he did." She whispered, her voice tight and reedy, "I always knew it. And the Lord punished him for it."  
  
Drusilla's dark, soulful eyes filled with sympathy and she reached out to her mother but draw up short.  
  
"No, Mum," she said, her voice strained and on the edge of tears, "that's not true."  
  
The woman turned around, her eyes looking empty and red-rimmed.  
  
"Then who, Drusilla?" she demanded, shaking her fist angrily, her bottom lip trembling with raw emotion, "Who is He punishin'?"   
  
Drusilla fell silent and dropped her gaze to the floor. She had an answer, but not one she wanted to share. It was she who had been afflicted with blasphemous visions. The father had told her that she was a Devil-child and that she was meant to walk the path of evil. But how could that be? Was it not every mortal's duty to strive to be more like God? Was the Lord punishing her for rejecting the path He had set out for her?  
  
"He deserves to burn for harborin' such evil visions." Her mother spat, disdainfully.  
  
Drusilla eyes went wide and her jaw dropped in shock. How could Mummy say such a thing? Joshua had been the most sensitive, caring young man in the world, not some Godless sinner. She was making it sound like he had asked to be afflicted with the Second Sight. Angrily, Drusilla jumped to her feet.  
  
"How can you turn your back on him?!" she shrieked, holding her arms rigidly by her sides and tears springing from her eyes, "Joshua loved you more than he loved his own life! He loved all of us!"  
  
Her mother flinched and turned her profile to her daughter.  
  
"He was evil." She steadfastly maintained, her voice low but resolute, "He got what he deserved."  
  
Drusilla's eyes darkened with betrayal and gut-wrenching understanding.  
  
"You See sometimes too, don't you?" she whispered venomously, "That's how you knew Anne had been to see her sweetheart. And that's why you hate it so much. You hate the visions because you have them too."  
  
Drusilla's mother leaped to her feet and cracked an open palm across her daughter's face.  
  
"Don't you ever say that again!" she screamed, her entire body trembling, "The visions are blasphemy, an affront to all that is good and holy. Joshua was struck down for his audacity and you'll be next if you don't change your ways."  
  
She turned her back to her daughter and clutched her hands together, the fingers working fitfully in agitation.  
  
"But I'm going to save you." She murmured, twisting her hands together in an attempt to still them.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's the only way to break this curse that's befallen us. You have to go away, Drusilla." The older woman's eyes were wild and her fingers trembled, "To the abbey."   
  
Dru's heart felt like it just stopped in her chest. The abbey. Of all the fears that had taken up residence inside her, that one had almost been lost in the maelstrom. Now it resurfaced with a vengeance.  
  
"What?" she gasped fearfully, "Mum, you can't-!"  
  
"It's the only way, Drusilla." Her mother barked desperately, "Give your life to God and hope that it's enough to save your wretched soul. To save all of us."  
  
Drusilla swallowed nervously, not wanting to point out that with her father and Joshua gone, her mother was the only one left other than Drusilla herself.  
  
***  
  
An old woman dressed in a pristine nun's habit met Drusilla at the door to the abbey. Her skin was wrinkled and her body seemed frighteningly thin, almost frail. But there was an intangible strength about her that defied the physical, as if her body was made of sterner stuff than the average person. Even the expression on her face reflected this sternness, being constantly turned down in a hard scowl.  
  
"Are you sure you want to do this?" John asked her, holding a pack full of her clothes in his hand like it weighed nothing. Perhaps to him, it did.   
  
He had volunteered to carry her few belongings up to the abbey for her as soon as he had heard the news of her departure. Her mother had told people that she was being sent away to study, but she was sure that most would know the difference. Three gruesome, mysterious deaths in the span of a week told their own tale, one that they were more likely to believe.  
  
"I have no choice." She shook her head sadly, "Me Mum says this is the only way for me to get better."  
  
He abruptly took her tiny hand in his and looked down at her with serious eyes.  
  
"You don't need to get better." He told her earnestly, "There's nothing wrong with you."  
  
She smiled slightly, the strongest emotional reaction she could muster through the dread that weighed on her, and ducked her head. John was such a nice man, but he just didn't understand. Joining the convent was the only way to save her soul from eternal torment. It was the only way that God would forgive her.   
  
"I must go now, John." She patted her hand gently against his thick arm, "The sisters are waiting for me."  
  
In truth, she didn't want to go at all and John's presence only made the decision more difficult for her. While she loved the Lord with all her heart and soul, the abbey had always frightened her, ever since she had been a child. Her mother used to tell her that there were spirits residing within the place, messengers from on high. Drusilla was afraid of what evil those spirits might see in her.   
  
She took the pack with her belongings and approached the stern sister, leaving John behind.  
  
"Come now, girl." The old woman prompted insistently, "The day's already wasting and you have a lot to learn."   
  
As the woman's withered, talon-like hand closed around her shoulder, she cast one last, regretful look over her shoulder to John. He stood exactly where she had left him, looking sad and sympathetic under a bright, warm sun, watching her disappear into the abbey. Drusilla had only a moment to commit the image to memory as the heavy, doubled doors swung closed with an echoing thud, plunging the inside of the building into utter, sheltered gloom.  
  
***  
  
Angelus prowled outside Drusilla's bedroom window, staring through the pane into the darkness inside. His undead eyes could see through the blackness as easily as if it were bathed in full daylight. And he did not like what they showed him.  
  
The room was bare, stripped of all personal belongings, down to the bed dressings. She was gone. His chaste little delight of purity had escaped him during the daylight hours.  
  
Growling in frustration, he ground his teeth and clenched his fists. They'd had no right to take her away from him! Drusilla belonged to him, as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. Her destiny was inalterably twined with his own, he had been sure of it since the moment he had first laid eyes on her. Such beauty, such purity, just begging to be brought into the darkness.  
  
The bedroom door opened and he hastily ducked down behind a thick shrub, peering cautiously through the branches. A haggard looking woman stepped into the room, looking far older than she should have. Angelus could smell the suffering on her and realized who she must be. Here was the one who had taken his Drusilla from him. A dark, murderous fire ignited in the depths of his eyes and the yellow faded into deep brown as he allowed his demonic face to melt away.  
  
Straightening his coat, he marched around the small house and up to the front door. Only a single oil lamp burned inside, throwing guttering orange light about the main room. Smoothing back his hair, he looked down at himself and brushed a few stray bits of twig and dust from his coat, then, satisfied that he was properly presentable, he rapped politely on the wood.  
  
Three more raps and almost a full minute passed before Drusilla's bedraggled mother emerged from the side room and came to answer the door. Pulling it open, she looked up at him without recognition, holding a worn, stitched doll hanging from one hand.  
  
"Good evenin', Madam." He greeted with his most ingratiating smile.  
  
The woman eyed him warily, her bloodshot eyes narrowed and surrounded by dark circles.  
  
"Who are ye?" she demanded, "I'm not for taking visitors at this late hour."  
  
She looked ready to slam the door in his face, so he moved quickly to allay her suspicion.  
  
"Just a missionary, Madam." He assured her with raised, open hands, "Here to check in on you and yer family after all the trouble that's been happenin' of late. Might I step inside for a moment?"  
  
He stepped closer, but stopped short of the threshold. Without invitation, he wouldn't be able to set a single foot inside.  
  
Drusilla's mother held steadfastly to the door, but looked at him with less mistrust now.  
  
"It's just you here, isn't it?" he asked innocently, "And yer daughter, of course?"  
  
The woman shook her head sharply, clearly upset, and clasped the doll tightly in her hands.  
  
"Dru's gone." She affirmed, "I sent her away. It was the only way to make things right in her head. Sick in her faith, she was."  
  
Outrage flared within Angelus and he had to fight to keep it from showing on his face. This worn old hag had dared to interfere with his game. But all was not yet lost and he prudently restrained himself.  
  
"I see." He nodded with interest, "You sent her to the abbey, then?"  
  
Watching her, he wanted nothing more than to lash out and rip her throat apart, but he needed to know for certain where his fair Drusilla had gone first.  
  
"Yes." The woman confirmed, "I sent her this morning. What does it matter to you?"  
  
Eyeing him shrewdly, she reached reflexively for the carved wooden crucifix around her throat.  
  
"You're one o' them, aren't ya?" she accused, seeming to draw strength from the icon, "A creature of evil, come to tempt away my daughter's soul."  
  
Angelus scowled, wondering what had given his ruse away.  
  
"Why, no, madam." he attempted to placate her, "I'm just a lowly missionary, lookin' ta do the Lord's work."  
  
"Ye're not the Lord's servant." she sneered, standing confidently just on the edge of the threshold, "If you were, you wouldn't need me to invite ya in!"  
  
Angelus' lip curled and his face unintentionally tensed into a demonic visage. The woman was not frightened, however. In fact, it appeared that she was only emboldened by the confirmation of his nature.  
  
"Like alla Satan's minions, you cannot cross the threshold into the home of a true believer!" she taunted him, "You can't hurt me. God is protecting me."  
  
She wavered dangerously close to the edge of the doorway, her smugness redoubling the Angelus' rage. She was right. As long as she stayed within the borders of her home, he could not enter without invitation. But, as he had learned, there was more than one way to skin a cat.  
  
Standing perfectly still for a moment, he burst forward with a sharp roar, his face and hands slamming up against the impenetrable invisible barrier in her doorway. The woman started, losing her hold on Drusilla's doll. The toy fell at her feet and bounced to lay limply just outside the door. Instinctively she crouched and reached for it, stretching her arm across the barrier.  
  
Angelus' large hand clamped painfully around the limb and she froze, her eyes wide with pain and shock. He grinned cruelly at her and twisted the limb slowly in his fist.  
  
"Where is your God now, madam?" he leered, jerking savagely on her arm and dragging the petrified woman out into the street.  
  
***  
  
Two days later, John sat down on the edge of his bed with a tired sigh. Absently, he rubbed at the soot marring his fingertips, succeeding only in smearing it instead of removing it. He'd had a good day at the forge. Searching for peace, he had worked relentlessly, pounding steel to chase all extraneous thoughts from his mind. He had wanted to think of nothing but hammer, fire and steel, but his respite had proved to be intermittent, as best.  
  
Always, his thoughts returned to Drusilla and the terrible tragedies that had overtaken her family recently. He wondered how she was doing, locked behind the walls of the abbey. It would be improper for him to visit her now that she was destined to take her vows and word was that her mother had not left the house since her son had died so she would be unable to offer him any news.  
  
So much pain and sorrow had plagued them, he doubted even the favor of the good Lord would be enough to protect Drusilla. Rising, he went to the wall where a crude metal crucifix hung on the wall. Little more than two pieces of iron stock welded together in the middle, it had been the result of John's very first turn at the forge when he had only been a boy. Brimming with pride, he had begged the deacon to say a prayer over the icon and bless it.  
  
He took the cross down and considered it silently. It was like his faith, he realized, battered and rough-hewn. After all that had happened, how could he be expected to keep stalwart belief in a god that would allow so much horror to occur to one family?  
  
A quiet knock sounded from the main room, originating from the outside of the main door. Frowning to himself, he shoved the metal cross into his pocket and hurried to answer the door. His father had gone into the city proper a while ago, perhaps he had accidentally locked himself out?  
  
Pulling the door open partway, he braced it against his body and looked out. When he saw who had come calling, all blood instantly drained from his face and terrible dread choked him.  
  
The shapely form of Anne Guthrie peered innocently up at him in her burial gown, seeming as small and harmless as a kitten.   
  
"Hello, John," she smiled shyly, "May I come in?"  
  
John's mouth worked soundlessly and he shook his head to clear the hallucination from his eyes, but the apparition remained.  
  
"Y-you're n-not supposed ta be here." He gasped fearfully.  
  
"I know." She nodded agreeably, "It's very late, but I needed to speak with you."  
  
John swallowed uncomfortably. He was not a strong believer in the supernatural, yet he could not deny the evidence right in front of him. This ghost, or whatever it was, looked, sounded and acted exactly like the late Anne Guthrie.  
  
"How?" he asked, still too stunned to think coherently.  
  
"I don't know." Anne shrugged slightly, shivering suddenly from the cold, "Can I please come inside?"  
  
John hesitated, holding the edge of the door. Good conduct dictated that he invite the girl in, but something inside him warned him not to. He pulled the door open a little more, but remained standing so that his impressive bulk blocked the entrance.  
  
"Have ya spoken to yer parents yet?" he asked, tensely. There was an air of quiet desperation around the girl that made him uneasy.  
  
"No." She shook her head, staring at the ground between her feet, "He was supposed to take me away from all this but instead he abandoned me. Please, let me inside, John, I'm so cold. A-and hungry."  
  
John reached across the threshold and took the girl's hand in his own. She was right, the flesh was chilled and pale, like a small chunk of ice in his hand.  
  
"We should get you to the surgeon." He suggested in concern, stepping halfway toward her.  
  
In a burst of action, Anne lashed out, raking long, hard nails across his arm.  
  
"Invite me in!" she shrieked, "Invite me!"  
  
John fell back into the room, clutching his wounded limb close to his body, and the door drifted open. Anne thrashed angrily, just outside the edge of the doorway, trapped by an invisible barrier. Her face twisted with rage, demonic ridges risen from the flesh and sharp fangs filling her mouth. He understood now how she had returned. Clearly, her body was possessed by the Devil.  
  
Drawing forth his small metal cross, he gripped it tightly and lunged forward, pressing it against the pale skin of her forehead. Flesh seared and smoked at the point of contact and Anne wailed in pain, pawing wildly at the wound. She stumbled and fell to one knee, hissing and spitting blindly.  
  
"I don't know who ya are," he shouted, brandishing the cross with a straight arm, "but ye're not Anne Guthrie!"  
  
Anne snarled at him, circling but unable to come within range of the holy symbol in his hand. John kept it aimed at her, fear quaking in his knees. Circling twice more, she spat at him and turned, fleeing into the night with a shriek of hatred.  
  
John held the cross out for long minutes after she had disappeared from sight, so frightened that he wasn't sure he could move. Finally calming himself enough to come back inside, he collapsed into a seated position on the floor.   
  
His mind still raced with shock and he was only beginning to comprehend what had just occurred. He had just witnessed something that was beyond anything he had ever experienced before in his life. Life from death. Or perhaps death from life, he wasn't entirely sure. One thing he did know, however, he planned to keep the information to himself. A demon on the loose would only become that much more of a danger if the only man who knew about it was locked up in the sanitarium.   
  
Cradling the small cross he had made as a child, he stood up and took a chair. There was no point in going back to bed, he doubted he would be able to sleep until the sun rose again and by then he would have other things to do. Eyeing the rifle he had taken into the hills only days ago, he settled in and watched the door with a cautious eye. Yes, tomorrow would be a full day, indeed.  
  
***  
  
Mother Constance stood sternly over Drusilla as the young girl toiled on her hands and knees, scrubbing industriously at the base of the Virgin Mary's shrine. Another girl, a recently inducted sister named Genevieve, hovered nearby, curiously aware of the new arrival.  
  
"Prayer is the first step on the path to forgiveness, daughter." The old woman instructed, "You must always be diligent in prayer if you seek the favor of our Lord."  
  
Drusilla nodded dutifully as she scoured away at the base of the smooth stone statue. Her shoulders were burning from overuse and her knees ached against the cold, hard floor. Mother Constance had been drilling her for hours, quoting biblical passages and neatly phrased personal mantras. For her own sake, Drusilla was doing her best to pay attention, but it was not an easy task.   
  
"Toil is the second step." Mother Constance continued, eyeing the girl's work with a critical eye, "Drusilla dear, make sure you get all the way in between the tiles. Cleanliness is, after all, next to Godliness."  
  
Drusilla slumped tiredly, her fingers feeling raw and sore. She had already gone between the tiles three times. A fresh, spring rain wasn't as clean as those tiles.  
  
"Come with me, daughter." Constance gripped her arms with bony, impossibly strong hands and hauled her to her feet, "I have something to show you."  
  
She led the girl down a long, empty hallway. Light shone in dusty beams on the polished floor tiles from stained glass windows set high on the walls. Each window depicted a different saint and the four largest housed images of the major archangels. The constructs of colored glass seemed to watch her as she walked, staring down at her with accusatory eyes.  
  
Evil, the saints seemed to say to her, You're a spawn of Satan. The Lord will use you and smite you down.  
  
Dropping her gaze, she quickened her steps and hurried down the hallway after Mother Constance.  
  
They turned into a high archway and entered a small room, barely larger than her sleeping quarters. A painted and laquered wooden statue of Christ hanging from the cross dominated the close chamber, filling the wall between two high, narrow windows. The light from the windows formed the ends of a rectangle at the base of the statue.  
  
Inwardly, Drusilla groaned softly. Another statue? How much more cleaning could she possibly be expected to do?  
  
"Kneel daughter." Mother Constance commanded levelly, pressing down on the girl's shoulder until her knees were positioned directly between the twin beams of light, "And tell me what you see."  
  
"Whu-Well, Sister," Drusilla stammered, mildly confused by the simple question, "It's the crucifixion of our Lord."  
  
Constance nodded in agreement, going to a long, shallow box on the wall, opening it and withdrawing a slender rod of black leather. Drusilla observed the item curiously. It looked like a riding crop, the kind the noblemen often carried with them. But what would Mother Constance want with a crop? She had no horse.  
  
"And what does it represent?" the older woman paced a slow, steady circle around her.  
  
"Our Lord died for our sins. The cross is a symbol of that redemption." Drusilla did not have to think about her answer. The lesson had been one of the earliest she had learned.  
  
"Hmm, yes." Mother Constance nodded again, "But does it mean anything else? Anything to you personally?"  
  
Drusilla shifted uneasily, uncomfortable with the tone of the woman's voice.  
  
"I don't know." She whispered as Mother Constance circled behind her, "I've never really-"  
  
The crop came down with lightning swiftness and cracked deafening along the tender skin of her shoulders. Drusilla cried out, falling forward and throwing her hands over her head to shield herself.  
  
"Christ suffered for three days on the cross to become pure enough to return to Heaven!" Constance shouted in a steely voice, "I know of the evil that afflicts you, Dursilla. If you are ever to be inducted into the Sisterhood, you must be purified."  
  
She snapped the crop down again across Drusilla's back and the girl yelped in pain. She curled fearfully against the cold stone floor and held back her tears as Constance stood, towering over her.  
  
"You already know the first steps to forgiveness, daughter. This is the last." The Sister slapped the crop sharply across her opposite palm, "Penance."  
  
Drusilla curled into a ball and held her breath, covering her head with her arms as the crop rose again.  
  
***  
  
Returning to the small, cubical chamber that served as her quarters at the abbey, Drusilla thankfully closed the door behind her. A thin, rickety bed sat against the back wall, pushed into the corner across from a compact bureau she had been allowed to bring with her from home. Her father had made that bureau for her when she was just a girl, setting the drawers and mounting the mirror with his own two hands.  
  
She walked past it and went to the window, habitually trying to block out the sadness that always accompanied thoughts of the man. Every day it seemed more and more distant to her, like her life before the abbey had belonged to someone else entirely. It had only been two weeks, but terrible homesickness filled her heart.  
  
Pulling aside the heavy drapes, she winced as the movement put stress on the tender skin across her shoulders. Raw, red stripes marked her soft skin, the legacy of Mother Constance's most recent lesson. Penance was a long and arduous process and, according to the mother, diligence in its execution was of utmost importance. She had even gone so far as to give Drusilla a crop of her own to use, but the girl had distastefully set it aside in her room, much to the old woman's dismay.  
  
As the drapes moved aside, a small, black-bodied spider fell onto the sill. Drusilla squeaked in fright and shrank back, disgusted by the arachnid. The horrible thing reminded her of the one she had found in her family's coal box so long ago, all crawly legs and glittering eyes. Grasping the stub of one of her study candles, she made a face and flicked at the spider with it until she had chased it out the window.  
  
Leaning out over the sill to make sure the dreadful creature was gone, she froze in horror, staring, gaping at the terrible sight that greeted her. The corpse of a beautiful, white dove was spread, bloodied and broken, over a rough framework that resembled Christ's cross. Someone had captured the poor unfortunate animal and carved it up with careful cruelty, arranging it like a gruesome offering to her directly beneath her window. Who would do such a blasphemous thing? And on the abbey's sacred ground, as well. Her thoughts turned endlessly on themselves as she attempted to understand the inconceivable act and a tiny headache blossomed inside her skull.  
  
Blinding sensation roared through her head, filling her brain with more input than a human was meant to interpret. It became night suddenly and the air in her room turned muggy and warm. She found herself dancing, whirling in graceful circles in the arms of a man who towered over her. John Coleman's large, gentle hands guided her movements with surprising skill, carrying her small form with him. Tilting her head back, she looked up into his face with a smile. The expression died quickly, though, when she saw him.  
  
His head hung listlessly to one side, the flesh of his face pale and wasted. Dark circles surrounded his vacant eyes and a sharp gash had been rent in the side of his neck, spilling a trail of dark, half-congealed blood onto his shirt.  
  
Pushing violently away from him, she fell back and pressed her hand to her mouth, sick with horror. The vision receded as quickly as it had come, dropping her abruptly back into reality.  
  
Weak and upset, she pulled her bible in her lap and opened it. Prayers. Prayers were the only way to clear the evil from her head. Mummy had said so.  
  
Mumbling the words to the Lord's prayer under her breath, she flipped through the pages in search of a passage with which to purify herself. An answer had to lay somewhere within the book, she refused to believe otherwise. If she was wrong, then there would certainly be no hope for the redemption of her wretched soul.  
  
***  
  
John clutched his rifle tightly in his fists, stalking as quietly as he could through the woods. A small, hooded lantern hung from the weapon's barrel, shedding light down onto the ground in a weak circle around him. The sun had dropped below the horizon an hour ago and he had slipped out of the house without his father knowing. He could never have explained why he had taken his gun out at night, or why he had waited until after dark to head for the woods. No one would have believed him if he told the truth.   
  
She was out here, he knew, lurking amid the trees and he was the only one who could stop her.  
  
His huge foot came down on a small branch and it snapped deafeningly against the spongy forest floor. A bolt of terror shot through him and he froze instantly, the skin over his ears tightening as he strained to hear if anything responded to the sound.  
  
He heard nothing, only the thudding of his own fear-stricken heart in his ears. Allowing himself to move again, he started slowly, easing back to a steady, marching pace. She could be anywhere, he realized, trying not to imagine Anne's feral face as it had been on the night she had come to him. The forest was her domain now, it welcomed the savage creature that she had become. His chances of finding her unaware were almost none. Although apprehensive, he carried on. Only the crude, metal cross under his coat lent a measure of comfort to him as he continued the hunt.  
  
Unbeknownst to the giant of a man, a small, blonde figure in a tattered maiden's dress crouched beneath the fallen trunk of a thick tree, her hands and feet planted like those of a wild animal, watching him with feral, yellow-irised eyes.   
  
***  
  
Drusilla tiredly entered her room and closed the heavy door behind her. Another long day of grueling chores had used up every last ounce of her energy and she wanted nothing more than to go straight to bed. At least no new visions had troubled her lately. Perhaps her efforts to atone had finally begun to take effect. She didn't bother to light the oil lamp as she crossed the chamber, just pulling off her clothes in the dark and changing into her nightgown.  
  
It wasn't until after she had crawled under her blankets that she realized she wasn't alone. When the tall figure moved through the dark and knelt down next to the edge of her bed, she knew immediately who it was.  
  
"Angel." She whispered, her eyes wide and blind in the pitch-blackness.  
  
The corner of her mattress bent under his weight as he sat down.  
  
"I've been waiting for you." He said in a low voice.  
  
She curled beneath the blankets, feeling frightened and defenseless in the dark, following his movements solely by the sound of his voice.   
  
"Joshua told me to stay away from you." She shrank back nervously and pulled the blankets up against her chest.  
  
Angelus laid his hand over her bent knee, the same one that he had kissed weeks ago, and stroked it gently through the thick wool. The sweet scent of fresh-turned earth tickled her nose.  
  
"You're brother is dead." He reminded her matter-of-factly, "It's time ya start making decisions for yourself."  
  
She shrank back further, more frightened by this new prospect than anything she could imagine from Angelus.   
  
"What do you want, Drusilla?" he asked softly, reaching out to stroke a cool finger along the curve of her cheek.  
  
The only touch she had felt since coming to the abbey had been the cruel kiss of Mother Constance's crop, nothing near the tenderness of this caress. She started at the contact, heat rushing to the surface of her skin. She could almost feel his smile as he leaned forward a little, listening, waiting.  
  
"I want to be good." She answered quickly, "To make my peace with the Lord, like Mummy wanted."  
  
"That's not what I asked." He took her head in his hands and held it like a treasure, his blunt fingers slipping into her long, unbound hair, "What do YOU want?"  
  
She shivered under his touch, tantalized by an indefinable sense of danger, yet reticent. Her thoughts were jumbled, distracted by his immediacy. Every moral bone in her body screamed at her to send him away, but she didn't, couldn't.  
  
"I . . .I don't know." She tried to shake her head, but he held her steady.  
  
Angelus placed the fingertips of one hand against her forehead and drew them slowly down her face, caressing her nose, her cheeks, her lips. She inhaled sharply, holding the breath, as she sensed his face move nearer to hers. As his fingers reached the edge of her chin, he followed the curve of her throat down to where her hand clutched the blankets against her chest.  
  
"What do you want, Drusilla?" he asked again, tugging the blankets down and stroking his hand under the neckline of her nightgown.  
  
She swallowed tensely as he brushed soft circles over the tender flesh between her maidenly breasts. The gradual movements evoked dizzying sensations from her body. Heat flushed through her, collecting under his hand and reaching down between her thighs. She grasped for his arm to pull him away, but he caught her hand and turned it up under his chin.  
  
Gently, he pressed his lips to her wrist and kissed the tiny quickening pulse he found there. Drusilla gasped and closed her eyes, her feet twisting into the blankets. Why was it that when he kissed her wrist, she could feel it all over?   
  
He stood up, still holding her by the wrist, and she heard a soft rustling, like cloth folding against itself. He was undressing.  
  
"What do you want?" he lifted the blanket and slipped under it, sliding his cool body up next to hers.  
  
Angelus drew his fingers up along the sides of her neck and leaned into her, his lips hovering only a tiny distance from hers. She released a short, tight moan and shuddered as more waves of heat rushed through her. She was sweating now, a light sheen of it springing up across her face and chest.  
  
"Tell me what you want." He dipped closer, the nearness of his flesh utterly intoxicating, despite the fear that still resided within her.  
  
She opened her mouth to speak and he met her in a strong, passionate kiss. Squeaking once in alarm, she fluttered her hands nervously in the air, but did nothing to resist him, stunned by the exciting contact. Sighing against the solidity of his body, she felt his moist tongue dart between her teeth and tickle against the insides of her lips. His mouth was tinged with a tingling, electrical taste of copper, pulling on hers with gentle insistence. Rolling over on top of her, he pressed her back into the soft mattress with the weight of his naked body.  
  
She pulled her mouth away from his, gasping and panting with desire, intensely aware of every inch of her body. The soft skin of her lips tingled from contact with him, urging her to seek more. She had never felt such incredible feelings before, the dizzying euphoria, the hot tension building inside her. But it was sin, she was sure of it, the work of the Devil to further despoil her. Pressing her palms against his muscled shoulders, she shifted underneath him, seeking escape, but the movement only sent a fresh jolt of pleasure shooting through her.  
  
"Please . . ." she moaned softly, "Please Angel, don't . . ."  
  
He ignored her plea, reaching down and grasping the hem of her sleeping gown. Burying his face into her neck, he traced his lips up along the tender flesh, nibbling and teasing her with his teeth. And slowly, he brought his hands upward.  
  
Drusilla's breath quickened into high-pitched pants and her legs instinctively parted, squeezing the insides of her knees against his solid thighs. Her entire body felt hot and moist, melting under his careful touch. Kissing her mouth with savage intensity, he slowly drew her breath into his lungs and cupped the palms of his hands against her soft, naked breasts.  
  
A strangled grunt forced its way out of her throat and she reared her head, arching her back as his mouth found her delicate throat. Moistening her lips with a hot tongue, she closed her eyes and tangled her fingers into his dark hair, following his head as he traced a line of kisses down her chest.   
  
Bathed in darkness, her imagination started to play tricks with her. She felt like she was hanging on the edge of a towering precipice, about to fall over. Above her floated the beatific face of the Lord, her God, radiant in His unfathomable mercy and wisdom. Below waited the deceptively beautiful face of Lucifer Himself, surrounded by a dark halo and dancing flames. While she reached desperately to touch the face of her God, the Devil tormented her with forbidden pleasure, seeking to steal away her immortal soul.  
  
The vision was shattered instantly as Angelus circled his tongue around her navel, sucking at the tiny depression in her soft midsection. She gasped sharply, her fingers clenched in his hair, and drove her toes into the mattress, delicious tension coiling like a spring inside her, just under his chin.   
  
Every shred of morality she possessed screamed at her to fight free, to escape Angelus' tantalizing ministrations and flee for the sake of her eternal soul. She tried to think of John and her dreams of a life with him. But she couldn't think anymore, only feel. All the nerves in her body were on fire, feeling every little movement of his hands and torso against her, the soft wetness of his tongue pressed against her flesh.  
  
"What do you want?" he whispered softly, his voice tickling against her abdomen.  
  
She answered him with a long, stifled groan, twisting her body against him and pushing his head lower.  
  
"Tell me." He demanded quietly, nuzzling into the silken flesh of her upper thigh and teasing her with his lips.  
  
"I want . . ." she gasped harshly, writhing in frustration against him, so close to satisfaction, "I want . . ."  
  
"Say it, Dru." He narrowed his eyes and lovingly kissed her opposite thigh, stroking his fingers up along her legs in gradually increasing circles over her smooth hips.  
  
"YOU!" she cried out desperately, surrendering to the need that dominated her every thought and movement, wrapping her legs tightly around his upper body.  
  
Angelus grinned broadly and lowered his head onto her.  
  
"That's just what I was waitin' to hear." He purred, positioning his elongated canines over her femoral artery and piercing her delicate flesh.  
  
Drusilla gasped as the slight pain traveled up her spine, translating itself into pure ecstasy, and the entire length of her body shuddered in answer. She held his head in place and sighed while he drank, drawing slowly from the tiny pinprick holes.  
  
After a moment, he released her soft skin and smiled, studying the residual teethmarks with pride.  
  
"Can't have the good sisters finding marks on you now, can we?" he smirked hungrily, lowering his head once more.  
  
***  
  
Sister Genevieve stood perfectly still in the corridor outside Drusilla's chamber, her ear cocked toward the door and her mouth hanging open. Another woman, Mother Constance, marched slowly down the hallway and the younger nun beckoned to her.  
  
"Mother Constance?" she whispered conspiratorially, "Can you hear that?"  
  
Constance stopped, lifting her head and straining her ears. From within Drusilla's room, she could hear the girl's sharp gasps and muffled cries, sounding in regular rhythm.  
  
"Why, yes." She answered, considering thoughtfully.  
  
Sister Genevieve bit her lip tensely, her eyes wide and unblinking, "It . . .it sounds like-"  
  
"Penance." The older woman nodded proudly.  
  
"What?" Sister Genevieve lifted her eyebrows in surprise.  
  
"She's finally taken to the crop!" Mother Constance smiled, the wrinkles in her face folding oddly in the uncommon expression, "I knew she'd come round eventually. Such piety is admirable, is it not?"  
  
"Yes, Sister." Genevieve lowered her eyes to the floor in disbelief, unwilling to argue with her superior.   
  
Mother Constance folded her hands under her chin and turned her face toward the heavens, "It's only a matter of time now before she is delivered unto your hands, oh Lord."   
  
***  
  
Making another pass through the forest that had become so familiar to him over the last few weeks, John did his best to keep his mind occupied. Monotonous movements formed a pattern which he repeated over and over. Step, step, step, step, adjust the lamp, step, step, step, sweep the end of the rifle.   
  
Rain speckled his wool overcoat, creating tiny beads atop the stray fibers. The dampness chilled his hands to the bone, but he didn't dare put them in his pockets. His breath made pale clouds of steam in the unseasonably cold night, its sound swallowed by the steady hiss of misty raindrops hitting the leaves overhead.  
  
He had been searching for the evil creature that wore Anne Guthrie's face for hours, the same as he had every night for many weeks now, with no luck. But she was out there. The rising number of bloodless animal corpses he had been coming across bore testament to Anne's insatiable hunger. As time went on, it seemed that Anne was getting better at hiding her kills, as well. She was steadily adapting to the wild, becoming one with it. The creatures she hunted now were larger and more challenging. Perhaps he had frightened her when she had come to his door, but she was regaining her confidence, working her way up the food chain toward the top. Time was running out, he realized as he eyed the remains of a ten-point buck he had uncovered just the previous night. If he didn't find her soon, he might not find her at all until it was too late. Soon she would be ready for a human victim.   
  
He lowered the end of his rifle and set the hanging oil lantern down on a flat rock. With a disheartened sigh, he swept a huge hand through his sopping locks, pushing the hair up out of his eyes. His one-man crusade had been costing him. Over the last few weeks, his health had begun to deteriorate from lack of sleep and food. He hadn't shaved in almost a week and his father's business was starting to feel his absentness at the forge. Perhaps it was time for him to give up, to let Anne Guthrie become someone else's responsibility. But he couldn't because the only way that would happen would be when she eventually killed someone from the town, thereby proving her existence to another.  
  
"Where are you, Anne?" he hissed quietly, gripping the stock of his rifle tightly.  
  
"Right where I've been every night, John." The girl's voice lilted sardonically from over his shoulder, "Right behind you."   
  
John whipped around, slipping in the damp leaves and bringing his gun to bear. Anne stood, soaked to the skin but oblivious to the rain, grinning fiendishly at him. Her dress was in tatters, the sleeves and lower portion having been ripped away for the sake of economical movement, exposing her pale, slender limbs. Blonde hair, drenched with rainwater, hung in lank tendrils from her head, tangled with twigs and leaves. There had been a time when Anne would never have shown herself without having first prepared a flawless appearance. London's little dove had become a savage wolf.  
  
She took a slow step forward and John jerked the end of his rifle at her in warning. With a slight, disdainful smirk, she eyed the weapon and raised her eyebrows in question.  
  
"Every night I see you out here." She mentioned casually, taking another step forward, "And every night I follow you and wonder why you do it."  
  
"Stay where ye are, damned creature!" he shouted with another stab of his gun barrel, carefully regaining his feet on the wet ground.  
  
Anne stopped with an accepting sigh and looked up at him with eyes that would have appeared innocent had it not been for the wild glitter that danced in their depths.  
  
"Why, John?" she asked plainly, "Why?"  
  
John hesitated, fear freezing his body to the spot. He had asked himself that same question countless times and only ever come up with one answer.  
  
"Y-you shouldn't be here." He replied, his voice trembling, "You're dead. 'Tis naught but the Devil's work."  
  
"No, John." She shook her head softly, "I'm alive. For the first time ever, I'm truly alive. But you are right about one thing. It is the work of a devil."  
  
Anne tilted her head back and stared into the sky, seeming to enjoy how the rain poured down over her.  
  
"He abandoned me." She revealed absently, "Left me in the ground and forgot about me. Left me with this unending hunger."  
  
John raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the center of her chest, his finger quivering on the trigger. Anne lowered her head to look at him and sighed, unconcerned.  
  
"You're not going to shoot me, are you John?" she pouted.  
  
Bursting forward, she lunged at him with a sharp, blood-curdling scream, her arms spread and fingers curled like talons. Instinctively, John raised his weapon and fired, blasting a hole clean through her mid-section.  
  
Anne's slight body bucked from the impact and she crumpled lifelessly to the forest floor in a heap. John swallowed nervously and stared at her, transfixed with horror. He'd had no idea how terrible it would be to finally kill her. Even though she was now a creature of the Devil, she had once been sweet innocent Anne Guthrie, a girl who had never meant a drop of harm to anyone.  
  
Her body stirred and a strangled moan of pain issued forth. Weakly, her hands reached out as if of their own accord and pawed through the dirt.  
  
John's mouth fell open in sickened awe. She was still alive!  
  
"J-John . . ." she mewled, crawling haltingly across the ground toward him, " . . . help me . . . "  
  
Shame filled him as he looked down at her pain-filled face, rain water dripping off his nose and chin. So small, so helpless, what had Anne ever done to deserve such a fate? Overcome with remorse, he knelt next to her, taking her hand in his with the intent of holding it until she expired.  
  
Pain lanced through his huge frame as Anne's fist slammed into his stomach with the force of a horse's kick. The rifle went spinning out of his hands and he tumbled back across the wet ground, coughing and wheezing. Anne sprang to her feet, totally unharmed.  
  
"Stupid man!" she spat venomously, "You think I'm so weak. Weak like you are."  
  
John shrank back, reaching blindly through the leaves for his rifle without finding it. Anne's face had transformed into the visage of the creature he had seen the first night she had come to him. Fleshy ridges had risen over and around her eyes, filling the hollows with harsh shadows from the weak lamplight. Her teeth had become jagged fangs and the color of her eyes had turned feral yellow. The eyes frightened him the most. They almost seemed luminescent in the darkness.  
  
"Don't be afraid, John." She soothed, "I'm going to take all your fear away. You won't be weak for much longer."  
  
John's hands stopped rifling over the ground and he froze, staring wide and unblinking at her.  
  
"W-what do ya m-mean?" he swallowed nervously.  
  
Anne chuckled lightly, the sound reminiscent of her once-innocent laughter yet tinged with dark design. She stretched out one of her arms and stroked it admiringly with a pleasant sigh.  
  
"I'm going to make you strong." She explained, "Like me. Except you won't be abandoned the way I was. I'll teach you everything you'll need to know."  
  
As she approached, John crabbed backward and his hand fell on the stock of his rifle.  
  
"Get away from me!" he roared, swinging the weapon around.  
  
Anne reacted far faster than he ever would have imagined, catching the barrel before it was even halfway pointed at her and wrenching the gun out of his grip. Offhandedly, she smashed it against the trunk of a tree, shattering it as she continued to advance.  
  
"You can't stop me, John." She chided, "No one can. I'm immortal now."  
  
Desperate to escape, he turned over and tried to run, his feet slipping in the sodden leaves. Anne struck his back with an impossibly strong fist, throwing him flat. Arms outstretched, he hit the ground, his chest impacting with painful force.   
  
"Anne, no, please." He begged, crawling instinctively to the small circle of dim light surrounding his lamp.  
  
Anne paused, just outside the light's edge, "You're a good man. I need you to help me find him. It has to be this way."  
  
She lunged again and this time he knew there would be no stopping her. His body reacted reflexively, hooking his fingers through the top of the lamp and swinging it forward with all his strength.  
  
Glass shattered and a huge gout of oil and flame burst forth, splashing Anne's small body. She staggered back, shrieking at ear-piercing volume, as the fire licked greedily over her flesh, engulfing her. Blindly, she staggered and lashed out, her body blazing like a living inferno.  
  
The blow glanced off the side of John's face, knocking him into a stand of trees and away from her as she stumbled and fell over a deadwood tree. One of the tree's long, pointed branched pierced her, lancing up through her tainted heart.  
  
John watched, mesmerized, as her body disintegrated with a hollow shriek. Her corpse was completely gone, leaving behind a vaguely human shape of burning oil guttering on the leaves. Even her bones were gone, like the Devil Himself had reached up through the flames to claim the remains of His servant.  
  
Rising to his feet, John leaned heavily against a tree, feeling sick and drained. She was gone. The devil-creature had been defeated, but the victory brought him no relief. Another had made her, the same way she had intended to make him. The true evil still lurked somewhere, perhaps nearby.  
  
All the terrible happenings lately were finally starting to make sense now. Evil had set upon this small corner of London, killing wantonly and without remorse in a pattern that could inevitably lead to only one person. Drusilla. Tomorrow she was to be inducted into the sisterhood, but he understood now that it would not save her. The evil would not relent while she still lived in London.   
  
Scooping up as much of the remaining oil as he could with a thick branch, he held it aloft like a torch and started resolutely back toward his house.   
  
Tomorrow, he would go to her and see that she never had to deal with tragedy again.  
  
***  
  
Drusilla held a small, struggling fly pinned between the nails of her thumb and forefinger and crouched before the web of the spider on her windowsill. Flicking the insect into the web, she watched with delight as the spider rushed over and swiftly bound its prey in a cocoon of silk.  
  
"Yes, little one, eat it all up." She cooed encouragingly, "If you clean your plate, then Mummy might take you for a walk after."  
  
Rising swiftly to her feet, Drusilla swooned, taking an unsteady step and pressing her hands to the wall to steady herself. She was always so tired lately. And confused. She had been having trouble sleeping. Horrible nightmares plagued her where she would be running from something, desperate to escape, only to find herself to be chasing someone else. In her most recent dreams, she had been fast enough to catch that someone, leaping on them like they were frightened, squealing pigs. Sometimes it was Sister Genevieve she hunted, sometimes her own mother, but in the end she always killed them, cutting their throats and gorging on the explosive blood flow.  
  
The only nights that the dreams did not hound her were the ones when Angel came to visit her. She flushed deeply with guilt when she thought of what he had been making her do, deeper still when she recalled how she had come to count the seconds until his return. Always, after their terrible sinning together, she would sleep the deep and dreamless sleep of the dead.  
  
Rubbing unconsciously at the pinprick holes on the upper inside of her thighs with one hand, she approached a small, rectangular mirror and picked up her hairbrush.  
  
She began pulling the brush through her dark locks, counting the strokes while admiring her reflection. Her skin had become so wonderfully pale lately, even her lips had lost pigment, and her eyes were so much prettier now, all pink and wet and shiny.  
  
Fifty strokes on one side and then another fifty on the other. She imagined she could hear a song from the brush, whisking effortlessly through her hair, and she began to sing along with it, her voice low and discordant.  
  
Suddenly, her head snapped up and she put the brush down. Earlier in the day, she had accepted her vows, dedicated her life to God. This afternoon would be her first prayer session as a fully inducted nun. It would be time soon, she would have to hurry if she was going to make it to the chapel before Mother Constance and the others. She so wanted them to be proud of her. Perhaps with her devotion to God cemented, she would finally be free of the evil inside her.  
  
Hastily, she smoothed down her simple dress and grabbed up her prayer book, the same one her father had given her after her first communion when she was a little girl.  
  
The chapel was only a short walk away and she found it still and empty. It reminded her of a tomb.   
  
Beams of warm, colored sunlight spilled in through the stained glass windows at the tops of the walls, creating blurred images on the floor. She hated those windows, the faces that always seemed to follow her with accusing eyes and judgmental expressions. Instinctively, she walked around the patterns of illumination on floor, avoiding direct contact with her small feet. She imagined that the light would burn her, punish her like the fires of Hell if it touched her skin.  
  
"You're a spawn of Satan." the voice of the priest reminded her matter-of-factly, "All the Hail Marys in the world aren't going to help. The Lord will use you and smite you down. He's like that."  
  
"Father?" she whispered, staring around, wide-eyed and lost.  
  
But the chapel was empty. Drusilla cowered fearfully, pulling both arms up and pressing her wrists against her mouth, and stepped around another light picture on the floor, this one depicting one of the four major archangels. The figure stood atop an outcropping of stone, brandishing a golden trumpet, his pale wings spread wide and his robes and long, auburn hair flowing in the wind.  
  
It was the archangel Gabriel, the Messenger, spreading the glorious word of God. Lifting her head and squinting at the bright panes of glass, she wondered what message the good archangel would bring for her.  
  
"Fulfill his plan, child." A ghostly voice told her, "Be evil. Just give in."  
  
She gasped in surprise and backed away as the light on the floor wafted up and took on the vague outline of a winged man with a trumpet. Like wisps of luminescent, colored smoke, the light held together and the archangel raised its arms and bore down on her, ready to dispense the Lord's justice.  
  
"The Lord has a plan for all creatures." The heavenly messenger declared, its eyes glowing like blinding yellow sunbursts and its wispy auburn hair flowing away from its face on the currents of a phantom breeze, "Even a Devil child like you."  
  
Drusilla stumbled back and fell into one of the sturdy, oak pews, raising her arms and covering her head in terror.  
  
"I don't want to be evil." She whispered, her voice trembling, "Please, I don't want to."  
  
A hand touched her arm and she started violently. Sister Genevieve jumped back in surprise, watching Drusilla with worry in her brown eyes.  
  
"Sister, are you all right?" she asked carefully.  
  
Drusilla forced herself to relax and lower her arms. Sister Genevieve stood squarely in the center of the light shining on the floor from the Messenger's stained glass image and the apparition of the archangel was nowhere to be seen.  
  
"I'm fine. Thank you, Sister." Dru answered, rising to her feet again and peering around, still nervous.  
  
"I understand your worry, Sister." Genevieve nodded, thinking she knew the source of Drusilla's odd behavior of late, "But the ceremony was the hardest part, you'll see."  
  
Drusilla nodded absently, swallowing and shooting a quick glance toward the glass archangel. The image appeared as it had every other day she had seen it, completely harmless, but she didn't trust it.  
  
"Come then." Genevieve indicated one of the front pews, closest to the altar, "We can wait in prayer until Mother Constance arrives."  
  
Drusilla obeyed willingly, taking a place next to the other girl and kneeling pietiously. She ducked her head and folded her hands together in an effort to pray, but the words would not come to her. Prayers that had been ingrained into her mind since the first moment she could talk were beyond her, lost in the fog that had been filling her mind lately.   
  
What good was it that she had accepted her vows if she could not even recall the Lord's prayer? Would she be punished further for this new affront?  
  
Cracking an eyelid, she looked sidelong at Sister Genevieve whose lips worked furiously as she recited endlessly under her breath.  
  
"What do you know of evil, Sister?" Drusilla asked her quietly.  
  
Genevieve's prayer was cut off in mid breath and she opened her eyes, turning to face her.  
  
"Evil?" she repeated confusedly, "I suppose that I know what everyone knows. Evil is wrong."  
  
Drusilla sighed softly, keeping her hands folded before her.  
  
"Why do you think the Lord allows it to exist then?" she pressed, "Do you think that perhaps evil has a purpose in His divine plan?"  
  
"Of course not!" Genevieve scoffed, uncertainty showing in her eyes, "It is man's purpose on this earth to destroy evil, the Bible says so."  
  
Drusilla looked directly into the other girl's eyes, her gaze becoming intense and piercing.  
  
"And what if God chooses to tolerate evil?" she posed, her voice low and level, "Or what if He doesn't even care?"  
  
Sister Genevieve gasped and her mouth hung in shock as she stared at Dru.  
  
A man cleared his throat as a way of announcing himself, near the entrance of the chapel. Drusilla turned backward and recognized him immediately.  
  
"Drusilla," John whispered to her in the solemnity of the chapel, "Can I speak with you?"  
  
He looked sick and pale, his face drawn and tired as he crouched in the doorway holding his hat politely in his hands. A pinkish burn marked one side of his face and small blisters speckled the skin.  
  
Ignoring Sister Genevieve's disapproving scowl, Drusilla rose and scurried to the entrance.  
  
"John," she smiled, guiding him quickly outside the doors and closing them, "You've come to wish me well with my induction. Is Mummy here?"   
  
She craned her neck and looked around him, back and forth, finding nothing. She continued to look, forgetting about her mother altogether and simply enjoying the odd feeling of swinging her head around until John took hold of her arms and held her still.  
  
"Yer Mum's not with me, Dru." He informed her sorrowfully, "They think she took your dowry and made away to Ireland with it. I thought you already knew. Your house has been empty for weeks."  
  
Drusilla backed away from him with tears brimming in her eyes, pressing her hands to her mouth in disbelief.  
  
"Empty?" she echoed absently.  
  
"There's more." He swallowed uneasily, his throat suddenly dry, "Anne Guthrie has been roaming the forest, killin' and drainin' the blood from the woodland beasts. Last night, I found her and finally laid her to rest for good. She was possessed by the Devil, Dru."  
  
Drusilla continued to stare at him in blank horror.  
  
"The Lord has a plan for all creatures." One of the many voices which had taken up residence in her head recently echoed, "Even a Devil child like you."  
  
She started to laugh, an almost inaudible tittering that sounded like the ringing of high-pitched discordant bells. Looking back, it was all so funny to her now. So Anne had been a Devil-child, too. And all she had done to deserve her fate was tryst in the woods with a young man who fancied her. What indescribable torment awaited Drusilla after all the sin that she had committed?  
  
John took her gently in his giant's hands and held her, his eyes filled with concern.  
  
"Dru, please," he begged her to look at him, "I didn't come here today to congratulate you on taking your vows."  
  
Her fit of giggling abruptly ceased and she immediately sobered, staring confusedly at him. Kneeling before her on one knee, he took both of her hands in his.  
  
"Dru, I want you to marry me." He whispered, his voice tight and intense, "Come away with me and leave this cursed place and all the trouble it's brought you."  
  
Drusilla pulled away from him, her eyes filled with tears and both her hands pressed tightly against her mouth. He didn't know that she had already taken her vows before God.  
  
"Nooooo." She whimpered fearfully, choking on soft, wracking sobs, "Please John, don't ask me that, not now."  
  
John swiftly rose and reached to take her hand again, but she flinched and hid her face from him, burying it in her sleeve.  
  
"I know you are to take your vows today." He allowed respectfully, "But that's why I had to come, before it was too late. I love you, Drusilla."  
  
She stared up at him and the way he looked at her, adoringly, as if she were the most beautiful girl in the world. Poor, sweet, innocent John Coleman, if only he knew how wrong he was. Even if she hadn't already taken her vows, marrying him would have been impossible.  
  
"I-I can't do that, John." She began to pace back and forth agitatedly, weeping quietly with her arms tangled together in front of her, her voice trembling with strain, "Oh, how I would truly love to marry you, but I can't. You deserve far better than evil, terrible Dru. The townfolk were right about me, you know?"  
  
"I don't care about any of that, Dru." John declared earnestly, moving to touch her again, but stopping as she waved him off, "I want to make you my wife."  
  
Drusilla shook her head, slowly then with increasing violence until it seemed she wanted to shake it from her shoulders.  
  
"No, John, you don't want me." She moaned piteously, reaching down to rub at the raw spots at the tops of her thighs, "I'm dirty. Tainted. The Devil has put His fluid in me and taken my fluid into Himself in turn."  
  
She turned swiftly, fixing him with wild, red-rimmed eyes and a fierce expression.  
  
"I have to atone, John. For my evil." She whispered tightly, staring through him rather than at him, "The Lord is testing me and His angels are watching, always watching."  
  
She flinched and looked fearfully overhead, worried that one might be looking over her at that very moment.  
  
"Please, Dru." John took her hand, worry deep in his eyes, "You need to get away from all this. Let me take you with me."  
  
She stared dumbly at his hand for a long moment, but did not pull away. John was such a good man, she couldn't bear to break his heart. Of all the evil she had committed, that was one deed she could not do.   
  
A dark, shadowy shape flitted across the periphery of her vision and a faint, sibilant voice hissed in her ear.  
  
"Get away from him!" the voice insisted, "You belong to us now!"  
  
More shapes danced before her eyes, too quick and ghostly for her to identify clearly. The voice in her ear was the same as that of the archangel image that had confronted her in the chapel and the shapes resembled the saints whose visages were depicted in the stained glass windows.  
  
"Dru?" John asked in concern, "What's wrong?"  
  
She warded him off with her hands and took a step back. Why couldn't he see them? Why couldn't he hear the voices?  
  
"You are evil! Evil, Drusilla Abbott!" they shrieked in her ears, "All who touch you are doomed!"  
  
The spectral visions whirled around her like a storm, almost completely blocking John from sight. They would go after him next, she knew, weigh down his kind-hearted soul until it was as black and despoiled as her own. She had to get him to leave, convince him to find safety somehow.  
  
"John, you have to go." She grabbed his arm tightly and turned him around, pushing futilely against his large frame.  
  
"But Dru, wait-" he protested, frowning in confusion, "You haven't answered me."  
  
"You belong to us!" the voices roared, drowning out John entirely.  
  
They crawled all over her, slithering across her body, leering and snarling evilly. She swept her arms sharply through the air to chase them away, but her hands passed through their intangible forms without effect.   
  
Her hands slapped John's arm and he jerked back, thinking it was him she had intended to strike.  
  
"Please, John," she begged him quietly, her eyes tightly closed, "It's best if you go."  
  
He reached out to touch her, but stopped, slowly withdrawing his hands. She could feel him standing over her, protective as always. She backed away, shrinking behind the chapel doors. John was the only thing that was left of the safe, secure world she had grown up in. But she was not part of his world anymore. Like the spectral voices had said, she belonged to them now.   
  
The flitting visions had faded away as quickly as they had manifested, but she knew they weren't far off. They would be watching and waiting.  
  
Leaving him standing stunned and confused outside, she pressed the palms of her hands flat against the wooden doors and pushed them closed.  
  
***  
  
Drusilla went directly to her room after leaving the chapel. Closing the door behind her, she leaned forward against it, pressing her forehead against the wood. She felt weak, drained from the near-constant assault on her senses by the ghostly visions, but she accepted it as a measure of proper punishment for her evil ways. The encounter with John had disturbed her, reminded her of a time when her life had been so much simpler. She wanted so desperately to return to that time now.  
  
Her world had been careening wildly from mundane into the surreal for months, ever since she had first set eyes on the devilishly handsome Angel. A slight shiver ran through her body as she thought of him, partly from fear, partly from desire.  
  
"I been waitin' for you." His voice sounded softly from behind her.  
  
She didn't turn around. A dozen different voices had been following her every moment of the day for weeks now and she was hardly surprised to hear another. She supposed it wouldn't be long before she would start taking the lot of them entirely for granted.  
  
A lukewarm body towered over her suddenly from behind, casting a late-day shadow onto her from frighteningly close, and a pair of strong arms wrapped around her. Well-formed hands pressed her fingers around a warm metal cup filled with dark liquid.  
  
"Drink." Angel urged, pulling her hands and the cup up to her lips.  
  
Drusilla did not resist. She was too tired and sick to argue anymore. Besides, she wasn't even sure she was ready to believe that this Angel was even real. Resting the edge of the cup against her bottom teeth, she tilted it back and allowed its contents to pour into her mouth. The drink was thick and viscous with slick, congealed globs near the bottom which she gulped back. A tiny rivulet dripped down her chin and left a crimson blotch on the front of her dress.  
  
She set the empty cup down and regarded the stain blankly.  
  
"This is blood." She noted tonelessly.  
  
"Yes it is, my love." Angelus replied, turning her around to face him fully, "And it is all you will drink from this moment on."  
  
Scowling in annoyance, she shook free of his hold and stepped back, away from him.  
  
"No, I'm going with John." She declared, "He's going to marry me."  
  
Angelus smirked cruelly, "No one's gonna marry you, Drusilla. Yer half-mad. You belong ta me now."  
  
He reached out for her again and she resisted, slapping his hand away with a child-like whine.   
  
"Oh, come now, don't be actin' like that." He chided, strolling over to her bed, "What would your mother think?"  
  
Unnoticed until now, her mother's still form reclined across the edge of the bed, pale and unmoving. Angelus sat down next to the woman and beckoned invitingly to Dru.  
  
"Come, sit with us." He suggested, lifting the woman's limp arm and squeezing her wrist against the edge of the cup, "Have another drink."  
  
Drusilla stared at the woman's face, still living but only barely, as Angelus filled the cup with her blood. Pain knotted in her stomach as she realized distantly that she had already tasted the cup's gruesome contents.  
  
"I'm going to find John." She moaned, reaching for the door.  
  
In the blink of an eye, Angelus leapt from the bed and clamped his arms tightly around her.  
  
"No." He commanded, pressing his face against her cheek as she struggled ineffectually against his formidable strength, "You can't go. I have to have you, Drusilla. There can be no other way."  
  
Tears sprang to Drusilla's eyes and rolled slowly down her flawless cheeks.  
  
"No." She protested with a sniff, her entire body trembling with fear, "The Lord will punish me."  
  
Angelus leaned closer, enfolding her more tightly.  
  
"All this suffering. All the pain you been feelin'. Wouldn't it be easier to just let it all go?" he breathed suggestively into her ear, increasing the pressure with his arms and slowly squeezing the air out of her lungs, "Stop fightin' it and surrender."  
  
As his teeth brushed her throat, Dru's mind reached a point of perfect clarity. All the confusion and madness that had accumulated over the past few months was washed away by the realization of what it truly was that held her. All the evil that tainted her, the darkness that Joshua had warned her of, she had foolishly invited it in. Turning her tear-streaked face toward the roof, she prayed silently for forgiveness.  
  
***  
  
John slowed and stopped on the trail that led back to the road. He couldn't stop thinking about Dru or the shadow that had fallen over her and her family. The men of her family were dead, her mother was gone, she had no one now. He couldn't leave her. Turning on his heel, he marched back up the hill, directly for the abbey.  
  
Balling his huge hand into a fist, he pounded on the door. As he pulled back his arm to knock again, the door opened and a chubby-faced girl stared up at him with wide eyes. He recognized her as the girl he had briefly seen at the chapel with Drusilla.  
  
"Where is she?" he asked quickly.  
  
The girl swallowed nervously and moistened her lips.  
  
"W-Who?" she stammered.  
  
"Drusilla Abbott." He replied, feeling an unexplained sense of urgency.  
  
He pushed the door in and started swiftly down the hallway toward the back.  
  
"Wait, you can't go back there!" the young nun protested, hauling ineffectually on his arm, "Sister Drusilla is in bed, taken ill."  
  
John ignored her and continued to where he knew the nuns were quartered.  
  
"Which room is hers?"  
  
The nun released his arm and hung back, unable to stop him from proceeding.  
  
"The last one on the left." She directed uncertainly, "But you still can't go in there."  
  
As he heedlessly placed his hand on the door to Drusilla's room, she turned and hurried away in distress, "I'm going to get Mother Constance."  
  
John let her go, unconcerned. His mind was occupied with other things. Shoving open Drusilla's door, he froze just outside it in shock, aghast at the scene that greeted him.  
  
The corpse of Drusilla's mother lay slumped on the floor against the corner of the bed, evidence of many days of torture obviously showing. In the center of the room, a tall, male figure attired in black clutched Drusilla's weakened form. She slumped against him, her face buried in his chest and her arms dangling slack at her sides. The man's features were distorted and feral, his eyes flaring vibrantly yellow as he drew greedily from a wound in Drusilla's throat with his mouth.  
  
He recognized the mark of evil on him, the same one that he had seen on Anne Guthrie. Here was the heart of the darkness that had infected Drusilla's life. The Devil Himself.  
  
Fighting off stunning astonishment, John reached into his coat and withdrew the metal crucifix that had become a permanent part of his attire recently. Leaping forward, he pressed it against her attacker's cheek.  
  
The creature roared in pain, dropping Drusilla's limp body to the floor and retreating to the far wall.   
  
John quickly closed the distance between himself and the creature, brandishing the cross at arm's length.   
  
"Leave her be, monster!" he roared, pinning the vampire against the wall with the force of his faith.  
  
The fiend glared at him with hatred seething in his eyes, but remained trapped. As long as John kept behind his cross, he would be safe.  
  
He remembered how Anne had died when a spear of wood had pierced her heart. Drawing a length of sharpened wood from his belt, John hoped her master would perish similarly. Raising his arm high, he aimed for the left side of the vampire's chest, stabbing down with all his strength.  
  
A small hand caught his arm, mid-stroke, in a crushing grip and squeezed until he dropped the wooden weapon with a cry of pain. Turning fear-filled eyes toward his new assailant, he gasped in horror.  
  
Her face distorted by evil, Drusilla watched him with wild yellow eyes and grinned with pointed teeth.  
  
"It's so sweet you came to save me, John." she smiled admiringly, "Let me give you a kiss."  
  
Long days pounding steel at the forge had corded John's body with solid muscle, but his strength was no match for the unearthly power now coursing through Drusilla's slender frame. He could only stare, wide-eyed, as his throat was exposed and his body drawn inexorably into her.  
  
Her teeth cut into his flesh and he choked in horror as he heard her sucking greedily. She started to spin slowly, carrying him effortlessly along with her in a gradual, haphazard dance. Slowly, the strength left his body and he felt very tired, lolling in her embrace. Lifting her mouth from his bleeding throat, she brushed her lips intimately close to his ear.  
  
"He really is an angel, John." she confided in a whisper, "He's come to take my soul away."  
  
Releasing him, she let his body thud lifelessly to the floor, his long limbs sprawling. His eyes rolled uncontrollably up inside his skull, he could barely see her standing over him as she stepped into the other creature's embrace. He knew it would only be moments before death took him.   
  
"I'll miss you, John." she whispered affectionately, "But we must be going now, Angel's taking me with him. Just as soon as we say goodbye to Mother Constance and the other nuns."  
  
The last thing John Coleman saw as death took him was the face of the woman he loved corrupted by a heart of purest evil.  
  



End file.
